Twenty-One, or Tell Me Your Story
by quillandspindle
Summary: "There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you." - Maya Angelou
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I swear, this started out as a one-shot, and it was a totally different story than what this eventually became. I have no idea how that happened. Anyway, it's good to be back writing, and I'm just going to let you guys read this and we can talk later. All the SG characters belong to the SG books.**

 **OakeX: Happy birthday, old thing (ha, the irony). This one's for you.**

* * *

On the third Thursday of each month, the servants knew to keep away from the Executive Office in the West Wing. Because every third Thursday, just after the lunch hour, the two princes of Faerie locked themselves behind the heavy walnut doors and did not emerge till late into the evening.

The younger prince called it an Executive Meeting. Perfectly groomed and unflinchingly affable, Mustardseed was always the first to arrive. Phone in hand, with all eight fingers (and two thumbs) on the pulse of his kingdom, he was the epitome of efficiency as he strode to the doors and flung them open.

His older brother, on the other hand, had several alternative names for this Executive Meeting and none respectful. Heir apparent to the throne of Faerie, Puck usually followed several minutes later, muttering and dragging his feet along the carpeted hallway like a pig led querulously to slaughter. His only consolation lay in the bags of chips swinging listlessly from his hands as he slouched toward the doors. If he had to sit through hell, he'd told his brother when they'd first begun this torture some years prior, he at least should be allowed to bring snacks. Mustardseed had been initially resistant, citing reasons of distraction and general mess, but he'd eventually relented upon realizing that if his brother were chewing during the proceedings, he could hardly also be sleeping through said proceedings. Besides, Puck had smugly and imperiously reminded him, he was the King, or would be once they'd figured out how to put him on the throne without backlash from the powerful and influential Northern Fae, who'd never liked Oberon and who tolerated his upstart of a son even less.

Eating aside, no one could really be sure of what went on in the Executive Office during these Executive Meetings. The servants only knew that important decisions were being made behind those doors, decisions for the good of their people, decisions that were the result of pondering and arguing and the weighing of conflicting interests. This they deduced from the noises that escaped into the hallway and into the curious ears of anyone brave (or foolish) enough to wander through the West Wing on those third Thursdays. The reports were varied: sometimes they'd heard voices raised in political debate. Sometimes the clashing steel of a sword duel. Other times, sporadic cheering and booing, as if the brothers had somehow smuggled in a TV set and were facing off against each other over a sporting event.

Once, one of the housemaids had even sworn she'd heard singing.

"Not _church_ singing, all pretty-like," she'd reported in a hushed whisper to the other domestic help, "but. . . " she crossed herself solemnly, "as if the majesties were in the bath and didn't care who heard."

No one had disbelieved her. Prince Mustardseed might be the embodiment of all things proper but Prince Puck . . . well, no one would put anything past him. And no one could - _dared_ \- imagine what Faerie would be like when he (finally) took the throne. They'd all believed that he was brave, that he was an accomplished warrior and brilliant military strategist, that he had courage in adversity where a lesser man might have emptied his bladder down the inside of his armor. But as a political visionary and leader of his people, they'd wondered if he perhaps lacked a certain . . . finesse - the ability to foster enduring relationships with other nations without threatening violence, the good sense to refrain from satire in the presence of dignitaries; even just the capacity - however minuscule - for soberness (sincere or otherwise) when the occasion called for it.

Thank the stars for Prince Mustardseed, their people would often say. He might not possess the alluring charisma that characterized all the Kings of Faerie and which their Crown Prince wore like a mantle around his glorious shoulders, but he had foresight, hindsight and all other manner of sight in between, the foil to his brother's manic energy, the gravity to his flightiness, the soul to his heart.

And now, on this third Thursday of one of the bitterest winter months ever to grace the barren fields of their kingdom, the two brothers reconnoitered once more behind closed doors, the mandatory bags of chips tossed carelessly on the long wooden table as Puck dropped his heels on its polished surface and leaned back in his chair.

"Can we make this short?" He asked hopefully.

"Do you have somewhere you need to be?" Mustardseed raised an eyebrow.

"Yes. Anywhere but here." He sighed and closed his eyes. "Fine. You may begin. Spill. Tell me all the horrible, hopeless happenings in our beloved homeland. . . again."

So Mustardseed began, dutifully reporting the land disputes settled by provincial judges, the progress made toward reasonable medical care to the outlying districts, how the new terms of trade with neighboring kingdoms had boosted Faerie's economy.

Puck reached for one of the bags, ripped it open, palmed fistfuls of chips into his mouth and resumed languishing in his chair. With his eyes closed and the crunching of his teeth reverberating pleasantly inside his head, he could almost pretend Mustardseed didn't exist.

A slap to the side of his thigh startled him, and he opened his eyes once more, to meet his brother's annoyed gaze.

"What?" Puck mumbled, spewing potato shrapnel. "It's the same old stuff. Every month you report on the trade and the land and the laws and every month it sounds like Faerie's the richest place in the world, with no crime and no social injustice and . . . well, if that's true, why bother listening? And why bother having these meetings anyway? We could just video one and replay it to an empty room each month. At least that time when we dueled over whether to go to war with the Inferi in the south was different."

"That's because between these meetings, your courtiers work their asses off to run your kingdom and keep it honest. While _you're_ off training your soldiers for battles we're never going to fight."

"Not true. We could be at the brink of war and not know it."

Mustardseed scraped a hand over his face. "Puck, we don't have any enemies, not like in the old days. They've all signed peace treaties - even the North court."

"The barbarians in the North don't do peace treaties, and you know it. Whatever it was you thought you signed was probably their queen's grocery list or something."

" _I_ didn't sign that treaty - _you_ did. And _all_ the other treaties. Because _you're_ next in line for the throne, not me, remember?"

"I _am_ on the throne. Metaphorically. The only reason I'm not also literally on it is because you're afraid those North scum will retaliate and challenge us for the right to rule. Just because they protested that one time. One _tiny_ battle. _Half_ a battle, actually. We didn't even get to the good parts."

Mustardseed took a breath, all prepared to defend his stance, when Puck sat up at last, knocking the bag of chips to the floor where it lay with its insides in an orange starburst on the ivory carpet.

"And I would've answered that challenge," he glared at his brother, "if you hadn't sent some stupid emissary to propose a ceasefire. Now we're stuck in limbo because you and Mother want to comb the archives for some obscure loophole in our law that will let me succeed my own father uncontested in our own kingdom. How stupid is that? My own father! In my own kingdom!"

"Well, Father did steal the kingdom from them in the first place."

"It was a _race_. He won. Don't you remember? New York, circa whatever century: whoever touched down here first got to rule Faerie. Our ship was faster. Their ship sank."

"Because a giant whale mysteriously head-butted their hull at the exact same time that the crown prince of Faerie was _just_ as mysteriously absent from his own ship."

"Well, it was every man - or kingdom - for itself. Besides, there was nothing in the rules against shapeshifting. They could've always dispatched their own champion, like . . . I dunno, a giant squid. No one was stopping them from counter-attacking."

"Which they are now that Father's gone and the original peace terms are moot."

"By pouting and saying we can't crown our own King. Which fool decided it was a good idea to stipulate peace terms that were valid only as long as the King was alive?"

"Father didn't imagine a time when the kingdom would be without him as its head."

"It's only out of respect for the dead, mind you, that I'm holding back what I _really_ think about our father's head."

"Passive-aggressive though they may be," Mustardseed raised his voice meaningfully, "they have a lot of influence in the northern regions. If you push your hand, they might invade us, and we have no allies, not this far south, surrounded by only humans. "

Puck snarled. "So your plan is to sit here for the next thousand centuries without a king, while you and I have snack parties monthly where we pat ourselves on the back for how well we've kept Faerie from being a third-world nation."

Mustardseed straightened and swallowed.

Puck's eyes narrowed to slits.

"What?" He growled. "You've always been lousy at secrets, baby brother. Spit it out."

"I have a proposition."

"Not another expedition to befriend the giants in Allorian? For Pete's sake, bro!"

"No. That was a misplaced confidence in military might, I admit. This is more of a . . . PR move."

"I _hate_ PR. It's a load of cr-"

"Fine. Diplomatic relations, then."

Puck swiveled his chair around and bestowed his back on his brother. "Do your worst."

"I know someone in . . . let's say strategic communication -"

"What the heck is strategic communication?"

"To explain it to you, I'd have to use even bigger words, so let's just leave it as that," Mustardseed evenly deflected, "and this person is sympathetic to our particular cause. They said that -"

"Wait - who's 'they'? I thought you said you knew _a_ person?" Puck turned back to glare at Mustardseed, and was astonished to see him color slightly.

"It's a female!" Puck's voice hushed in wonder. "You've been talking to a female and you didn't want me to know and so you tried to say 'they'. Brother, have you been secretly having a social life? Wow! We should sound the proverbial trumpets and declare a kingdom festival!"

Mustardseed's only reaction was a twitch in his jaw.

"As I was saying," he went on, deliberately ignoring Puck's sarcasm, " _they_ agreed with me that we need allies. Not just military forces we can call on in times of threat, but true allies even in times of peace. Faerie is an unusual kingdom. Our people are not only Fae, as populate the other fairy courts around the world. When Father first began ruling, he took in _all_ the Everafters in the region, gave them a safe place to be from the mortal world outside. And it worked - for a while. Those Everafters rarely - if ever - ventured outside Faerie, let alone assimilated with that mortal world where they could find work, have prospects for themselves, futures for their children. Those who did sometimes survived but enough stories have filtered back to paint a bleak enough outlook of life out there that fewer and fewer were motivated to leave. Now here we are in the busiest city in the human world, far, far removed from other Everafters. We're isolated. We're regressing instead of progressing. Eventually, we're going to run out of land, out of Everafters to marry and start families and new populations with -"

"There are humans. They can marry humans," Puck pointed out, frowning.

"And you will be the perfect poster boy for that forward thinking," Mustardseed reassured him dryly, gratified at the slight flush that crept up his brother's neck as he'd spoken. "But you know as well as I that Faerie is not set up for easy comings-and-goings between Everafters and humans. And the issue still remains that we need to make connections - old and new - with others of our kind, to invite them to join us, to encourage our people to join them."

"I'm listening," Puck filled his brother's pause, his face unusually serious.

"We start small: show our faces here, say a few words there, get our foot in the door. People notice, they get interested, they ask about us, we land interviews, and we get a voice, to share what _we_ want about who we are to the entire world -"

"Assuming the entire world is interested -"

"- they will be, with the right angle. And if we're lucky, other Everafters will read those interviews, will hopefully spread the news, and they'll come out of hiding."

"And if we're _especially_ lucky," Puck pointed out primly, "we'll have time to pack up and run before the monsters come find us, because we'd just as good as declared an open house."

Mustardseed threw him a disapproving look. "Have some faith, Puck. The monsters, as you call them, already know where we are. And for whatever reason, they've not come calling, not in the centuries we've been here. The good guys, the ones who're scared, the ones who need to know it's okay to get help from the human world - they're the ones we're trying to reach."

"Get help from the human world," Puck repeated slowly, his lip curling, and Mustardseed's brow furrowed at the sight.

" _You_ did, didn't you?" He asked, suddenly uncertain. "The Grimms helped you, helped us, are still helping us."

"Well, then the Grimms are the weirdos." Puck's face suddenly closed, and turned away.

"What do you mean?"

The silence that followed was a stark change from the heated words that had flown between them just moments earlier. Mustardseed watched his older brother wrestle within himself until finally, Puck met his gaze with cold eyes.

"You never had the delight of being banished, brother. Of being butt-kicked out into this warm and welcoming human world, as you call it. Let's just say that I can totally sympathize with all those scaredy cats hiding in the woodwork. Sometimes it's not worth the risk of leaving home. Lucky for them, they still have the choice. Maybe we should just let them stay where they are instead of baiting them with promises of new tomorrows and glorious opportunities and other such crap."

When Puck finished his bitter tirade, Mustardseed sat heavily down in his chair and folded his fingers together. His head was spinning with the realization that he'd never actually known what Puck had lived through during his years of exile. Because he'd been brought back to Faerie by friends and even now remained connected to them - by choice - he'd assumed that his brother had found ways to cope with being away from home, had not suffered too much, had been happy.

"What happened to you out there, Puck?" He asked quietly.

Puck's eyes shuttered. "Everything."

"Tell me," Mustardseed's words were a plea.

"Not my favorite bedtime story," Puck snorted, but his flippancy didn't have quite its usual edge. "It could keep you up at night. You see, before the Grimms found me, everyone else did. Father threw me out with nothing. I still had my magic, sure, but I also had to eat, to sleep, to hide. At first, I played tricks, and that worked for a while. But humans are resilient little blighters. They stay scared for only so long. After that, they fight back. So I stole and I fought and I killed. Hundreds and hundreds of them before the Old Lady got hold of me. I almost killed her, too, and I would've if not for that wolf man."

"Mr Canis."

"Yes. That's what I meant when I said the Grimms were the weirdos. They were the only ones who didn't join the hunt. Do you know, brother, that the humans have ways to torture a boy that even the Fae would never dream of?"

Mustardseed visibly flinched. "Puck, I'm . . . sorry."

Puck shook his head violently. "Whatever. It's done now. I don't think of it much. Anyway, why would I wish that on other Everafters? It's a trap."

"What if . . . what if it wasn't, though? What if the world's different now? What if Everafters could enter it and be safe, because there are other Everafters already in it whom they'd know to seek out, who would welcome them, who could help? What if that could've been the world you found instead of the one you were forced into? What if someone had tried - had succeeded - to do what we're only doing now?"

Puck was silent once more, studying the orange crumbs on the carpet. Mustardseed wisely let him have his thoughts to himself.

"What do you have in mind?" Puck asked at last.

"We use the media."

"Like . . . go on national TV and campaign for. . . other Fae to come out of the woodwork so we can have a big midnight revel in some park somewhere?" In the wake of the buildup, the exasperation on Puck's face was almost comical.

"Not exactly. We're going to use a different platform. We'll market ourselves as ambassadors of goodwill and social success. Other Everafters around the world will see it, be reassured that it is possible to make a life in the mortal universe, and even contribute to it, use our skills for mutual good."

Mustardseed paused and Puck blinked several times.

"I didn't understand a single word you said there," he moaned. "Except for the bit about goodwill, which I just about barfed at because I am _so_ not about goodwill. Just. . . give it to me straight, Mustardseed. What is it you've signed us up for?"

Then Mustardseed inhaled, and told him, and even though he'd kept his voice low, the servants several hallways down said later that Puck's laughter was like a dying man convulsing on borrowed air.


	2. Chapter 2

Triumph.

Sweet as the sugar high promised by the prize in her hands but just as disappointingly short-lived, it vanished into the bitter wind that hit her as she pushed open the door. New York City was frigid at this time of year and the warmth of the bakery, not to mention the jostling bodies crammed shoulder to shoulder at the counter, made it all the worse to step out into the winter twilight. Even the thrill of the battle - watching the server pick out the last cupcake in the display and hand it to her as the obnoxious man in the expensive wool coat glared daggers at her back - dissipated like the puff of steam between her lips as she huffed and wound her scarf ferociously around her face.

"The _things_ I do for you," she muttered to no one in particular.

What things, indeed.

Postcards and the occasional letter at first: traditional ways to bridge the miles. Later - when he'd finally figured out the necessary technology - texts and email. _Cheaper_ , she'd explained; _no need for stamps and ink and paper_.

 _Not_ because it meant having to wait seconds instead of weeks between words. No, not that at all.

And what words. Those who'd known them from before might say it was no surprise. Any time they'd been in close proximity they were explosive, like tinder and spark, bickering and roughhousing their way first through a war, then in and out of an adolescence even more fraught. After, he'd left their town with her uncle for adventures more suited to his talents and she'd remained behind to live out the normal life that had always been her dream. They'd made no secret of their joy to be rid of each other, yet in the parting they'd found themselves oddly bereft, as if each had been the voice in the other's head - a concert of consciences, the soundtrack to their becoming, with who they'd been resounding in its refrain - and that voice were now silenced.

So they'd found ways to continue the conversations. Never gushing - each would rather be flayed alive than step carelessly over the line, lest it be misconstrued as _missing_. No, to trespass into the no man's land of sentiment would've been friendship suicide. Not that they were even friends, each would adamantly maintain. _I put up with him_ , she'd say, _because otherwise who else would_? _I save her sorry behind_ , he'd scoff, _because she's too hotheaded to keep it out of the jaws of death_.

 _Whatever_ , they'd both roll their eyes in response.

And then each would pointedly tune the other out for months on end, just because.

Until their birthdays, when it was a free-for-all of stupid jokes and witty aspersions on each other's character and virtue. And there were gifts, too, if you could call them that. Eccentric tokens devised for perverse entertainment, like Secret Santa on crack.

Because he'd been traveling the world when they first began this twisted game, they'd kept the offerings small, not knowing the particular customs restrictions of whichever country he might be in at the time. From all over the world, they found their way to her mailbox. Sachets of concoctions from shamans that promised to cure chronic ugliness. A rock purportedly imbued with the ability to lift the curse of stupidity. A scrap of linen that had graced the backside of an Egyptian pharaoh "and still smelled better than you", according to the accompanying card. And most recently, sand from the bottom of an ocean trench, in a tiny plastic bottle on which he'd scribbled - barely legibly - that it had been "nicked from Neptune's backyard", with continuing instructions on motel stationery: "Make your own dowry. Add oysters and wait 80 years. Good luck trying to find a guy after that long, loser."

In retaliation, she'd unleashed her own brand of creative, albeit less exotic, gifting: baking soda in a ziplock bag labeled "Stain Remover: use liberally on whole face", a booklet titled 501 Painless Ways To Be Humbler, a water-activated expanding Peter Pan face cloth, and a dead luna moth she'd found in the park, preserved and pinned to the bottom of a wooden box. She'd hesitated before mailing that last one out, not so much guilty about dredging up memories as wary of sending the wrong signals. Then she'd remembered his DIY Dowry note and dropped the package in the mail chute with resentful satisfaction. Three weeks later when he'd received it and read her card: "Happy birthday! This could've been your life!" he'd called her all the way from Tunisia and said he'd never been happier to toss a gift into the trash.

After, there'd been an awkward silence. Sabrina, beginning to regret her decision to broach an ex -, had eventually ventured, "What happened to her, by the way?"

And Puck, whose hide was thankfully thicker than most, had replied shortly, "Mother . . . shipped her out. I don't know where to."

"But you wish you did."

"No."

"Not even a little bit? Wasn't she your friend once upon a time?"

"As if. We grew up together, so she was always hanging around, but she was always more interested in my power than in me."

"Because she had so little of it."

"And yet look at the havoc she wreaked with it."

"At least your dad picked someone for you that you knew, not some stranger."

"I'd have preferred a stranger. And considering where my father landed up, _he_ should've have preferred a stranger, too."

"Well, you're free now. You can choose whoever you want, or nobody at all and just continue to live free and roam the world."

Puck had laughed. "Nice try, Grimm. You're not weaseling out of your high calling. We're fated to be together, remember?"

"Puck, that was a long time ago. We're twenty now, different people than who we were. That was a fairytale."

"And our lives aren't?"

" _Yours_ is, sure. But not mine. Mine's normal. I'm in a normal college now and after that I'm going to normal law school, and -"

"- and then you're going to be Queen."

"Am not."

"Are, too."

"Am not!"

"Why not?"

"Because! Because . . . come on, Puck! Surely you don't still believe that future thing? That was just _one_ future! Not _the_ future, thank goodness."

"Why? It wasn't a bad future."

"Excuse me? It was a horrible future! There was war! People were hurt! Like Daphne!"

"For the record, that was your word against everybody else's. _I_ didn't see that future. In the one _I_ saw, Marshmallow was perfectly fine. And if I recall correctly, in _that_ future, war and all, we were _still_ a thing. So sorry, Pukeface, looks like we're stuck with each other."

"Okay, I'm so done with this. Say what you like. Wait - are you telling me you're . . . saving yourself for me?"

The thought had hit her out of the blue and left a strange taste in her mouth. She'd wrinkled her nose as Puck stammered through his response.

"What? Ew! Er. . ."

"Surely you've been on dates . . . right? I mean . . . you're traveling the world, aren't you? Meeting all kinds of new people? Don't tell me that all this time you've only been hanging out with Uncle Jake!"

"Well, it hasn't exactly been R&R, ya know!" Puck had sounded both bewildered and defensive. "It's not like we ever stayed long enough anywhere to hit the bars and pubs. I was _busy,_ woman. We were on magical missions, collecting artifacts and -"

"Puck," Sabrina quietly interrupted, fighting back a wave of pity, "I've . . . had boyfriends. And I . . . don't think I shouldn't've."

"Well - that's your choice." The pause before his reply had been two seconds too long.

"Puck," Sabrina called his name again, "I . . . I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"I . . . didn't know. I mean, I _don't_ know. That you - that . . . oh, this is awkward and awful."

"Why is it? Look, I believe in fate and you clearly don't. You want to date other guys just to prove that they're wrong for you and I don't care to date other girls . . . heck, I'm just glad I don't _have_ to date other girls. Anyway, we're allowed to disagree. After all, that's what marriage is about, right - fighting and disagreeing?"

It had struck her then that theirs was possibly the purest - if weirdest - friendship she'd ever have: no secrets, no boundaries, no expectations, in spite of knowing they were doomed to be destiny's endgame. If she had to be existentially tethered to someone, she supposed she should be thankful it was a boy who didn't think it a huge deal that she wasn't buying into the idea a hundred percent.

"So . . . we're friends . . .?" She'd wondered aloud.

"Until you start being sappy and unable to keep your hands off me. Then I'll have to put out a restraining order on you."

She'd laughed, feeling a burst of affection like a window thrown open in a dark corner of her soul. "That's a start."

* * *

They'd never spoken of it since, but Sabrina had found herself revisiting their conversation after each break up with whichever boyfriend she'd let walk out of her life. It'd been tempting to see it as the natural progression of social experimentation: heartbreak and loss playing roundabout tag with the high of hormones and idealism. After all, it wasn't as if she were the only one - everybody else she knew seemed equally trapped in the quest to be their true selves, to discover what they wanted in life.

Learn to love yourself before you can love someone else, the self-help magazines proclaimed reassuringly. Don't go looking for it, but don't slam the door when it comes a-knocking, either, her girlfriends counseled. And to her own reflection in the mirror, she'd lectured, "Nobody said you had to muddle through your teen years lonely and destitute. You can get to know people. You can have fun. You don't owe him anything."

(Well, apart from your life, which he'd saved oh - only about thirty seven million times).

But then there was that _other_ conversation when Sabrina had come home after ending things with Ansel.

"Why are you doing this, sis?" Daphne had padded into her sister's room, sat on Sabrina's bed and watched her struggle not to come undone.

"Doing what? Breaking up with them?"

" _Going out_ with them."

Sabrina, nineteen-going-on-twenty, had not bothered to answer. What had been the point? A reason that explained nothing was no reason at all. She'd just had open heart surgery with a rusty knife and no anesthesia, and she'd wanted nothing more than to just cry herself into a coma.

And Daphne, fifteen-going-on-thirty-seven, had let her.

For about five minutes. Then, with the dull slice of reason, she'd attacked. "Why haven't you tried-"

"Because I don't want to."

"Are you afraid?"

"Of what?"

"Of getting hurt?"

Sabrina had not rolled her eyes. Oh, she'd itched to, had almost let reflex deliver her compulsive signature move like a slap in her sister's face. But with remarkable restraint, she'd made herself sit bland, even though it'd been the cheesiest of cheesy questions, broached at the tactlessest of tactless moments. Daphne was young, she'd reminded herself. Daphne had read too many romance stories, Daphne hadn't quite experienced the real world yet.

 _And Daphne doesn't deserve the brunt of my anger. She's had enough of it, back when all she had was me, and it was all I had._

Instead, she'd said, "No, I'm being assertive. I'm saying I can't help what happened in the past, and I may not be able to control the future but I am sure as heck going to do what I want with the present. And that means meeting people, liking them, even falling in love."

"But not with Puck."

"I'm not in love with Puck."

Daphne hadn't bothered to hide her disappointment but almost immediately, her eyes had flashed.

"Well, maybe it isn't love, but you two are made for each other. You fought wars together. You did the puberty thing together. You're besties."

 _Yep, Daphne had definitely read all the wrong stories._

"Daphne, we're not even in the same country. We haven't seen each other in ages, he's who-knows-where in the world, doing his own thing, and I've got my own life right here with my own friends. Sure, we spent a lot of time together as children, but that was years ago. Puck and I have nothing in common now. I don't know the next thing about his life, what he's learning, what he likes or hates, what he wants to do next. . . Friends know what each other's up to. Friends work at their friendship. Friends are there for each other. Puck and I aren't . . . we haven't been like that for a long time. I don't think we're really even friends, let alone besties."

 _Nailed it_ , she'd congratulated herself, and tried to ignore how her chest had squeezed more and more tightly as she'd built her argument to its climax. Daphne, however, would not be cowed.

"No. I don't buy that, not after seeing you text and email and send those adorable presents to each other on your birthdays."

"They're not adorable. They're insulting and offensive."

"For _you_ both, that's adorable. But you're missing the point, sis."

Sabrina had sighed tiredly. "Which is?"

"That he's actually having birthdays. That he hasn't stopped aging. And that you're completely okay with it. Celebrating it, even. What do you imagine he thinks of that?"

And Sabrina had been struck speechless, outmatched by her little sister. Daphne, however, showed no triumph, only sadness as she leaned over to hug Sabrina.

"You know what your problem is, sis? You don't like unsolved mysteries. What you and Puck have is this awesome, one-in-a-million kind of thing, but you don't have a name for it. So you've put a blanket over it and shoved it in the attic, like those stories we used to read when we were little, the ones that didn't go the way we wanted. Remember? But it's still your favorite story, so every now and then you sneak into the attic and read a few pages of it again. And sometimes you go to the library and check out a new book because you think maybe it's like the one in the attic. But when you're done reading it, you realize it's not. Sometimes you don't even finish the story because you've figured out halfway through that it's boring. Maybe you should just go read that story in the attic - read it till the end, even if it doesn't go the way you want, even if you don't know what to call it, just because it makes you happy."

Daphne had been sifting her fingers through Sabrina's hair and the familiar action, more than her sister's whimsical speech, brought new tears. "I _know_ how that story ends, Daph."

"And you're gonna be okay," Daphne had soothed, then added, quite matter-of-fact, "and I'm sorry about Ansel. I liked him. He was nice, nicer even than Matt. But he isn't Puck."

* * *

In the following months, much to Daphne's dismay, she'd observed no new developments in her sister's friendship with the boy that had once shared their childhood home.

But there'd been no other boyfriends after Ansel.

* * *

Somehow, Sabrina made it through her senior year of high school and her first year of college without much more emotional fallout. She'd tried to be gracious, independent and focused on her intellectual passions rather than the search for the perfect soulmate that seemed to preoccupy too many of her friends. None of them knew about her other life, the one in which she was heir to a legacy of magic, the one which would go on forever because she'd been bestowed immortality in return for saving the world from imminent darkness. She guarded those secrets carefully, but none as much as the one regarding Puck and her future - _their_ future. This she'd resolved early on: that guaranteed destination had to mean more than a beckoning from romantic nirvana. She had a calling, a mission to make her world a better place and she had neither time or inclination to bat her eyes at boys who couldn't think past their noses.

At least, that's what her friends had surmised, at least, watching her blaze through school, the occasional relationship or two on the side like an afterthought. And she hadn't bothered to disenchant them of their foregone conclusions. Let them believe of her what they would. Go-getter, feminist, right-wing, overachiever, emotional nutcase: all far less scandalous than admitting that all roads led to rome, with rome in this case being an impossible boy who blew the competition out of the water anyway.

Nope - no way to explain _that_.

So it was that she found herself a week before Christmas, standing on the corner of 49th and 6th, having just exited her favorite bakery and explaining to her classmates that she'd have to pass on drinks at the very new and very fashionable watering hole on the Upper West Side because she had a cupcake to deliver to a friend.

"Doesn't Magnolia do deliveries?" They wondered aloud. "Everyone does these days."

"Not the point," Sabrina ushered them away from the entrance as a line of hopeful patrons formed outside the door. "I told you guys, it's a tradition we started over mail, but now that he's in town and I'm on break, it was too good a chance to pass up. I want to see his face when he opens this thing I made."

"Or maybe you just want to see his face, period." Her roommate wiggled her eyebrows suggestively before addressing the other two girls, "she spent hours on YouTube researching DIY tutorials to make this . . . I don't even know what it is, frankly. Hours! I don't even handmake a card for my _mother_."

"Celine . . ." Sabrina sighed, unzipping her backpack and carefully setting the cupcake box among its contents, "we've talked about this. My grandmother adopted him. We've lived in the same house for years."

"And yet you have absolutely no photos of him, while there are tons on your bedroom wall and images on your phone of Daphne and Basil and your parents, and your grandma and that weird man she's living with. I'm beginning to think he doesn't exist, and you've made him up just to avoid hanging out with us and to justify breaking up with all those other guys."

" _Or_ -" Kea lifted a finger, " - maybe he's hideous and Sabrina wants to protect his beautiful inner soul from people like us who are shallow and judgemental."

" _Or_ -" Samantha hushed them all and leaned into the group huddle, "-maybe he's gorgeous and she doesn't want to share."

Three pairs of eyes turned to Sabrina inquiringly.

 _How about he's not human?_ She thought to herself. _Also extremely rude and with the biggest sense of self-entitlement in the cosmos?_

"Another time, guys," she said instead. "And let me say what I've said to Celine about a million times already: it's hard to take photos of someone who's never around."

This was true, but there was another reason for why she didn't have a single photo in her room of this elusive boy. That, however, was a can of worms she didn't care to open, not even for a peek.

"Huh." Kea looked dissatisfied. "Okay, one last chance - it's winter break, which won't happen for a whole 'nother 12 months, and you can finally let your hair down after a grueling first semester under Professor Evilpants Edwards. Come on, Sabrina. Whoever this boy is, surely he can wait an hour or two for his precious cupcake."

Sabrina hesitated, then shook her head apologetically. "Normally, I would, but I also have to drive to my granny's tomorrow morning and I don't wanna be hungover."

Kea threw her hands up. "I give up. You're like a brick wall, girl."

"It's true, guys. You know what I'm like when I have a few."

Her friends threw each other knowing looks. "Oh, that's right - the girl can't hold her booze."

"And by booze, we mean anything stronger than Gatorade."

"Hey!" She defended herself. "Someone _spiked_ the Gatorade that last party, remember?"

"It was _champagne_ , 'Bri." Celina corrected gently, patting her shoulder with a sad shake of her head.

Sabrina brushed off their good-natured teasing. She'd known Celina, Kea and Sam since freshman year and they'd grown closer over the months of classes and after-school partying. Sabrina mostly excused herself from the wilder excursions that typically ended in someone throwing up in inconvenient locations while everyone else tsk-ed that they'd had to prematurely abandon the merrymaking. In return, her friends felt it their bounden duty to get her to loosen up by graduation but Sabrina was never one to bow to peer pressure. Even without the dismal outcomes of their carousing, she had other, more prudent reasons for restraint. Let them scoff that she was a teetotaler by devout choice - it was just another fallacy to add to their growing collection of misconceptions anyway, and certainly easier than explaining that she had a magical addiction, triggered by anything even remotely resembling a stimulant, as she'd learned the hard way on her first night out with her new dorm mates.

She resolutely ignored the disturbing pattern emerging: secrets to keep her two worlds apart, split personas cloaked in half-truths. _Price to pay_ , she rationalized. _I'm a Grimm - this is what we do._

"Go have fun," she told them instead. "And stay safe."

"Yes, Mom," they drawled back. Then her roommate's expression turned wicked. "Although I have to say: hand delivering a cupcake in this blizzard? To a boy who's just a friend? Mm-hm. Maybe you're the one that needs to stay safe tonight."

And with that parting shot, they finally walked off, their laughter fading into the sounds of traffic around her.

* * *

 **A/N: 95% of this chapter is backstory, and written in past perfect. Not my favorite tense, and so meandering, besides, but there's so much context I wanted to cram in before the story really begins. Hopefully it read okay. Next chapters are all in-the-moment, yay.**

 **Random fact which I need for a later chapter: does anyone know Briar's favorite rose color? Or Jake's? I can't remember if the books ever mentioned it but I keep imagining it's white.**

 **Guest reviewer: thank you! I hope you liked this chapter!**


	3. Chapter 3

_Just a friend._

Well.

It was complicated.

For one, she wasn't sure about _friend_.

 _Friends_ (as she'd argued with Daphne) were people who spent time together. This she'd learned first by hanging out with other like-minded classmates through grade school and later floundering in the deep end of the college social pool known as dorm life. Now, she was willing to concede that not all of that time spent together had to be joyous and edifying. After all, friends argued and turned their backs in a huff, sometimes plain ignored each other. But they did things _together_. Were often in the same room. Sometimes even at the same time.

For all those reasons - and more - Puck did not make the cut.

The last time she'd _seen_ him in person was three years ago. And before that, his visits were infrequent at best. So infrequent, in fact, that when they did meet, she could calibrate the months and years passed by the changes in his face. Even their frisky correspondences did nothing to temper the gaps in her memories of him: he didn't talk about his adventures, she didn't feel he was interested in hers. Pen-pals at least told you what they'd been up to between letters and email so that over time, you formed an impression of them in your mind, your heart. With Puck, it was like meeting the same stranger over and over again.

For another, there was the issue of _just_.

You see, they had history. That was the word that came to Sabrina's mind when it wandered into that slippery place where common sense went to die. There was flirting in that history. Also, allusions and innuendo. And - most chilling of all - an actual, undefinable mutual affection. Only when he was behaving himself, she'd qualify; otherwise, she couldn't have cared less if he were eaten by wolves. At least, that's what she'd yell at him.

As if their scandalous past weren't enough of an emotional lodestone, they also had a future. Oracular, prophetic, predestination, fate, whatever (she favored "ominous") - the story was that they'd get hitched at some point, drawn inescapably together by fate and (one might assume) passionate desire. This she discovered on an accidental trip forward in time wherein she'd beheld their older selves in matrimonial bliss and had her life changed forever. To be fair, Sabrina had stopped minding the idea once she'd gotten over the crushing shock that all potential romantic adventures with anyone else had just become dead-end streets. After all, Puck was not exactly horrible to look at, nor was he nearly as malevolent as he'd have liked everyone to believe. He could be amusing, occasionally thoughtful and - most charmingly - he treated her like an equal. If she were honest with herself, she secretly thought she could've done a lot worse than a boy who'd always had her back and whose face, provided it wasn't twisted in a wicked smirk, still struck her speechless. And Puck himself had eventually warmed up to the many benefits of having Sabrina in his life with whom to participate in an eternity of shenanigans.

However, that future was a long way ahead and she was more concerned with what to do with him in the present, separated by months, miles and the divergence of their lives.

Then - and this was the kicker - there was the slight problem of his new . . . career. She was still very skeptical that it wasn't one elaborate prank because inexplicably, in a bizarre PR move that made sense only to them, Puck and Mustardseed had apparently become fashion models.

The way the media told it, New York City was a melting pot of beautiful people, but none like the arresting Goodfellow boys, seemingly immune to the ravages of time and flawless on the page even without airbrushing. The light loved them, the shadows accentuated the angles of their impossible features, and the fashion world simply lapped it all up: Mustardseed: clean cut and golden, the boy every mother wished her daughter might bring home; Puck: green-eyed and tousle-haired, the boy every daughter secretly wanted to. They were selective; Mustardseed himself assiduously scrutinized the offers and contracts to filter out the shirtless endorsements of generic men's fragrances and half-lidded come-hithers alongside luxury cars. They graced the most prestigious catwalks in the industry, then seduced the masses in interviews and photoessays while lounging deliciously in Armani and Kiton. Unsurprisingly, their exclusivity launched them further and faster into the public eye; months after the first photographs exploded simultaneously in the top international men's fashion magazines, solicitations continued to pour in from newspapers, tabloids, fashion houses and all over social media. The reviews were nothing short of stellar. _Absurdly photogenic_ , London called them. _Luminous_ , New York Fashion Week gushed. And in Paris and Milan, it was unclear if the billboards were exaltations of the bespoke suits or shrines unto the two brothers themselves, on whose glorious bodies those suits hung.

To say it was a success was an understatement. Even Mustardseed hadn't anticipated the almost rabid response to their new celebrity status. Puck, however, thought it was ridiculous and a big fuss over nothing.

"Like you needed my face in a dumb magazine to know that everyone would worship me," he'd scoffed.

There'd been teething problems, of course. Being thrust into the limelight after centuries of calculated seclusion took getting used to, even after one had convinced oneself of all the reasons for which it was both necessary and advantageous. Mustardseed, painfully conscious of the potential pitfalls of revealing too much too soon in the wrong context, once again holed Puck up in the Executive Office, this time to discuss something he called "information management".

"Best to let me do most of the talking initially," Mustardseed decided for them. "Ambiguity and decorum must be the order of the day and you don't seem to have a filter between your brain and your mouth."

Puck gave him a blank stare and shrugged, then tilted back his head and poured half a bag of chips down his throat.

* * *

The first reporter they met with seemed personable enough. Mustardseed's mysterious and extremely well-connected contact had set everything in motion in all the right directions but even that could not distract him from how much was riding on that initial interview. In the minutes before leaving Faerie, the brothers stood together in the Executive Office to consider the possibility that, as Puck had so elegantly put it earlier, they were about to commit political suicide by declaring an open house to monsters and mayhem. Mustardseed paced the room with his usual preternatural calm but Puck suspected that internally, he was well and truly freaking out.

"Last chance to back out," Mustardseed halted before the portrait of Oberon and Titania hanging between tapestries so ancient that Puck couldn't even remember when they'd appeared in their kingdom. "We can still call this off and retreat once more into the safety of status quo."

Surprisingly, it was Puck who stepped out in faith and stood in the gap. "O blessed obscurity. He that remains seated can hardly be blamed for rocking the boat. Yet a century from now, or a decade, or a millennium, we'll still be here, having these meetings, wondering if it wasn't so much a case of not rocking the boat as missing it altogether. Or -" His voice has been bored, even disdainful as he'd waxed philosphical but in that last word, Mustardseed recognized the almost arrogant confidence that had stood many a King of Faerie in good stead in the face of crippling uncertainty.

He pulled his gaze from the faces of their parents to his irrepressible brother, sprawled in his chair, innocently examining his nails.

"Or," Puck continued, grinning, "we could dispatch another whale."

"Be serious, Puck! This is no time for metaphors."

"I _am_ serious. Sometimes it's ships and sometimes it's the cavalry. And sometimes it's the media, brainwashing the world. But it's still all war, however different it looks or sounds. Well, I say send in the whales and knock it all out of the water. Because it's _our_ battle, and this is how we win."

"But - the risk. What if I'm wrong?"

"The risk is what makes it fun." Puck met Mustardseed's gaze in challenge. "Besides, are you telling me that after all your winsome lass has done to get us in the front door, you're gonna stand her up?"

"That's low, even for you," Mustardseed growled.

Puck smiled slowly. "Low? Oh, there are dungeons below the basements of my villainy that even monsters are afraid to go."

* * *

Mustardseed perched on his seat, jaw set and fingers drumming on his thigh as if he were about to bolt at any second. The reporter, an older man in a tweed suit and a neatly-trimmed goatee, took one look at him and wisely decided to engage Puck first.

"This is highly unusual," he began apologetically, "but my editor wasn't actually sure of your names. We received conflicting info from our sources, you see, so I thought we'd start by setting the record straight. So, let's start with you, shall we?"

"Sure," Puck tossed out.

"Okay, what name do you go by? Real, stage, whatever your prefer."

"Robin," Puck said easily. They'd decided against pseudonyms for the sake of transparency. Well, _relative_ transparency.

"Last name?"

"Goodfellow."

"Robin Goodfellow." The reporter dutifully repeated, scribbling. Then he paused and looked up from his notepad with bright eyes. "Like that troublemaker elf in Shakespeare! Great stage name. I like it."

 _Elf?_ Puck's lip curled in disgust. He opened his mouth to disabuse the ignoramus, then caught Mustardseed's stern eye, and closed it.

The reporter turned to Mustardseed with a smile meant to be reassuring. "And _your_ name is . . .?"

Mustardseed tilted his head and said in measured tones, "Let's just go with M."

"Okay. M. Goodfellow. So I -"

"No -" Mustardseed stopped him, " - just 'M'."

The reporter's brow wrinkled. "Just . . . _M_?"

"Yes."

"Which stands for . . .?" He pressed.

Mustardseed's jaw spasmed. "Mister."

Puck faked a cough to disguise his snort.

The reporter blinked, stunned. Then his face crinkled. "Heh. And here I was thinking it was your brother that was the funny one. Well, M. it is. All the more enigmatic. The ladies're gonna love it."

Puck exploded into a full-blown coughing fit, which only escalated when Mustardseed ground out, "Don't mind him - my brother has the intellect and social skills of a mealworm. . . no, that's totally off-the-record . . . no, it wasn't a joke, either . . . NO, you may NOT quote me on that. . ."

* * *

When enough time had passed that the brothers were once again on speaking terms, they informed Titania of their plans. And Titania approved - with one caveat.

"Whatever you do, don't let them put you in a Solaris suit," she declared with fervor as she settled in one of the armchairs in the sunny meeting room. "I cannot abide my sons in Solaris."

The image consultant directing this particular meeting - an Everafter with an impressive resume that included the rich and famous of the mortal world - paused with his finger mid-sentence on his iPhone screen, and arched an eyebrow. During his long and illustrious career, he'd dressed countless stars in Solaris and no one had ever complained. Lifting his gaze to his present company (who, in his opinion, were surely idiots), he twisted his face into his most potent sneer, the one which said _I've Been In This Business Long Enough To Know Who's Who_ and which in any other client would've produced an instant and permanent inferiority complex.

Unfortunately, it somehow escaped him that the Queen of Faerie wasn't just _any other client_.

"Solaris is tacky." Titania rolled her eyes ferociously in a blatant dare, and Puck and Mustardseed exchanged a look. The young upstart was an arrogant fool to even think it a good idea to challenge Fae royalty, and they were more than happy to lead him to repentance. Mustardseed's lips curved and Puck's eyes glinted as the image consultant allowed the briefest flash of surprise to soften his features.

"They had a . . . thing a couple seasons ago," Puck indulged him. "Apparently, Mother was his muse-"

"Inspired his entire spring line that first year they were together," Mustardseed added, as if suddenly remembering. "Huge hit all over Europe. People said he had an eye for wonder."

"Tragically, wonder wasn't the only thing he had an eye for. Mother spotted him at a fashion event with some infant of a girl on his arm." Puck sounded suitably scandalized. "He's been tanking ever since."

The image consultant tried with limited success to keep a straight face. With a net worth of billions, Solaris was hardly _floundering_ , let alone tanking.

"Make sure it's someone with class," Titania continued as if she hadn't heard the brothers' commentary. "Brioni, for instance - gorgeous suits. Or Ferdinando."

"Ferndinando does _shoes_ ," Mustardseed pointed out.

"And _what_ shoes," Titania sighed. "He reminds me a little of Elecante. Remember Elecante?"

"Royal cobbler," Puck helpfully supplied.

" _Ex_ -royal cobbler," Mustardseed corrected ominously.

Titania's expression became sad. "Sometimes, when I look at the . . . _things_ the humans call shoes, I almost wish I hadn't let Elecante go. Nobody made shoes like Elecante."

Mustardseed leaned close enough to whisper conspiratorially in the ear of the hapless image consultant. "Made the most exquisite shoes but unfortunately, the poor fellow was getting on in years. One day he made Mother a pair of diamond sandals that was a hair's breath off on the left side - " he looked at his brother, " - or was it right, Puck? My memory of Mother's wardrobe disasters is a little patchy."

"Left," Titania all but scowled. "I couldn't feel my toes for _days_."

"Point is," Puck rallied with relish, "Mother had him butchered. Rumor has it she also skinned him - although no one can be sure if this was before or after he died - and had his apprentice make the next pair of shoes _from_ him."

"It wasn't a rumor." Titania made an exasperated noise. "And it was _after_. By the stars, son, he was my favorite cobbler; what kind of monster do you think I am?"

"And then offed the apprentice as well." Mustardseed finished, leaning back in his chair.

"Shoddy workmanship," Titania said reasonably, waving her hand dismissively at her sons, as if impatient with their frivolity. In one silky move, she stood and buttoned the jacket of her pantsuit, then stared down at the image consultant, who was conspicuously silent. "So, now let us speak plainly, young man. You came highly recommend as someone with . . . taste, although your choice of footwear this morning has cast me in doubt of that. Nevertheless, I am entrusting my sons to you. Style and market them to your best ability but choose well so that you do not embarrass them or yourself. If I find out you've branded my boys as the paltry human trash you typically turn out in your meretricious commercials, I will have your head. And _you_ will still be _alive_ while I am having it, all the better to behold the error of your ways. Now, boys, forgive me for abandoning you but I have work to do that cannot wait."

The image consultant hastily rose to his own feet but kept his eyes fixed on his thousand-dollar Zegna boots, his face now an unflattering shade of green as Titania swept out the door. Her smile said she knew she'd gotten her point across but that she needn't have bothered, because everyone in the room knew her sons would've looked stunning even fresh out of bed at unearthly o'clock and bedecked in Walmart polyester.

* * *

Eventful though the behind-the-scenes might have been, Sabrina was privy to none of them. Instead, she found out along with the rest of the unsuspecting world when the prints hit the newsstands - and almost suffered an aneurysm. Not that fashion magazines were her thing - it was Daphne who'd first got wind of it and texted her the cover photo of Puck in a wing-tip shirt and black tails. Daphne had slyly included the caption, "Dry run for the wedding, Brina? Puberty's been VERY kind, eh?"

Sabrina spent a grand total of three seconds debating whether to vomit or swoon before deciding on neither, instead rushing out of her apartment to the nearest bookstore to pick up a copy of the magazine. Along the way, a hundred different thoughts assailed her. What was he thinking? What secrets did he cockily divulge about himself, about his station in life, about Everafters? Was he annoying enough to have mentioned her family or - worse - _her?_ And Mustardseed! What on earth possessed him to be yanked along for the ride? She'd always thought he, at least, had his head screwed on the right way. After slapping the money on the counter, she didn't even wait to return to her apartment; for the next fifteen minutes, she stood by the side of the road devouring the article with her heart in her throat. When she was done reading - and gawking at the half-a-dozen or so photos - she felt as if her head were full of ether.

 _Does your ego know no bounds?_ She texted Puck immediately after, not expecting him to reply, as she hadn't even stopped to remember which part of the world he might be in, let alone the time difference between them.

 _Oh hello Stinkface_ , he texted back immediately, _was that rhetorical or was there actually something in particular you wanted to complain about?_

 _I just bought the latest issue of GQ, idiot._

 _Ah! And is it soaked through with your drool yet?_

She blushed and cursed, not entirely able to bring herself to lie. Stupid boy! Stupid Fae genes! Stupid everything!

Abandoning the keypad, she dialed him instead, not even waiting for his hello before jumping straight into the conversation. "Let's for the moment skip over the two million reasons for why you shouldn't have even thought this was a good idea and let's talk about your brother. How on earth did you blackmail Mustardseed into agreeing?"

He guffawed. "Actually it was _Mustardseed's_ idea."

Sabrina almost dropped the phone.

"Liar."

"I'm serious! Can you imagine _me_ wanting to clean up and get a haircut? Of my own free will? Or even tied down with a sword to my heart?"

She frowned. He did have a point.

"Is he . . . possessed?" She wondered aloud.

"If by 'possessed' you mean a conniving opportunist, then yes. He thought the publicity would be good for us."

" _Us_ being. . .?"

"Everafters."

Sabrina had no words for almost a half minute.

"Why?" When she finally found her voice, it was a weak bleat. " _Why_? How could any publicity be _good_? Did you somehow forget that for centuries, Everafters have been living in _fear_ of the outside world, of being recognized and persecuted for their differences, their powers? I mean, we've only _just_ found some kind of . . . equilibrium after the barrier came down. And we're only just beginning to assimilate, to make friends, to . . . to . . . boldly go where no man - or woman, immortal or otherwise - has gone before."

"That's what _I_ told him. And it turns out that's exactly his reason for this. "

"How is that the same thing?"

"The way he saw it, someday, whether intentionally or not, we're going to out ourselves. Better to have had some of us in the news already, familiar faces your people recognize as harmless, contributing, influential members of society. You could say it was in the name of goodwill."

The snort that met his speech was nothing short of ear-splitting. "Since when were _you_ a fan of goodwill?" Sabrina managed to wheeze out between cackles of very unladylike laughter.

"You are a lowly human and yet you know me so well," Puck declared with something akin to awe in his voice, "while my brother is both an absolute moron _and_ a sadist. He said that people would take me more seriously if they saw me in something other than a hoodie."

"So he tricked you into cleaning yourself up," Sabrina noted with new appreciation for the genius of Faerie's second-in-command. "I can see his point. But . . . the catwalk? A bit drastic, isn't it - all those binding contracts and restrictive diets and being at the beck and call of temperamental designers and couture bigwigs? I can't see _him_ pandering to their whims, let alone _you_."

"Hah! There are no binding contracts. You've got it all wrong, Grimm. _We_ don't work for _them_. _They_ work for _us_. See, thanks to Mustardseed's connections and Mother's numerous ah . . . liaisons, we know a few people in the fashion world. Word was they needed a fresh face to sell their new lines, we needed a way to reach Everafters underground, so we cut a deal. And now that we've been seen in a couple places, the masses are interested, so we gave the reporters something to bite, everyone enjoyed some positive publicity on social media and our friends in faraway places got to hear about how it's safe for them to come out of hiding. Win-win."

"While the mortal universe gets one step closer to crossing over and discovering our world because now everyone knows who you are: the _absurdly photogenic Goodfellow brothers_ ," Sabrina nudged her phone against her shoulder as she quoted from the magazine in her hand: " _Robin and M. Highly eligible yet completely under the radar - until now_." She paused, bemused. "Just 'M', huh? How coy. Surely someone was curious about what the M stood for?"

With great relish, Puck recounted their disastrous first interview for Sabrina's benefit, and once again, she accused him of spewing untruths, which he vehemently denied. Eventually, she shook her head and resumed reading aloud chunks of text while grinning in amusement: " _Heirs to a family fortune . . . vieux riche_. . . I don't even know how to pronounce that _. . . wildly successful family business_ . . . who fed them all this? . . . _Are not at liberty to divulge, other than that it's in -_ "

" - strategic people management," they chorused together, and burst into laughter.

"Well, that's one way of describing a monarchy, I suppose. Can't believe they bought it, though," Sabrina mused, ignoring the passers-by who'd turned to stare in her direction. "I could've sworn the media was a lot sharper than that. Speaking of which, just _how_ did they not notice your _ears_? I mean, they were the first thing _I_ noticed!"

"Ah, because you _knew_ to look for them. It's glamor. Those who know about us can see them and those who don't, can't. I thought even you would know that. It's a brilliant way to reach other Everafters without letting on to everybody else. Like I said - you gotta make the media work for you, babe."

"Don't call me that, Puck. Oh, wow. this is just so surreal." She sighed as another thought hit her. "Hey . . . did. . . um, you didn't mention me, or my family, did you? In the interviews, I mean. There's nothing in this article, but what about -"

"Nah. You're still a nobody. Mustardseed and I agreed that we shouldn't drag anyone else into this. Who knows what the paparazzi would do to you, let alone the Everafters who're still sympathetic to the Scarlet Hand."

"Well, is it working? All this social outreach, I mean?"

"No one's stepped forward and offered to ally their kingdoms with us yet, if that's what you're asking. But guess how many marriage proposals _I've_ received? Mustardseed doesn't want to play, because he's such a goody two-shoes but I'm keeping count and I'm way ahead of him."

"I don't want to-"

"Seventy-nine million, four hundred and sixty-six thousand, seven hundred and thirty-two," Puck interrupted her smugly. "And that's just the females. You should feel very flattered that I've turned them all down for you."

"I'm astonished that you could even count past ten."

"Hey! With the right motivation, the sky's the limit. But I'm getting real bored rejecting everyone, so I'm thinking it's about time we made it official. This way, all the lovestruck females can grieve and rebound on lesser mortals, and all the deluded males will get it in their heads that I don't swing that way."

"Make what official?"

"Us, stupid."

"There is no _us_ , Puck!"

"Sure there is. You just wanna keep denying it."

And there it was again: their mystical, promissory future bleeding into their impotent here-and-now. She thought of changing the subject, because the alternative would be another unending volley of _I'm Too Young, I Want to Date Other Guys, You Need To Get Out More, I Don't Care To Be Queen_. She wished he wouldn't keep leapfrogging over their not-friendship. She wished she had the words to tell him what _really_ bugged her: that he'd changed, was _still_ changing, and it felt like she was losing a little of him each time. Case in point: he was suddenly the darling of the fashion world and she'd had no idea, had been the last to find out, hadn't even _known_ he was back in town.

"Grimm?"

"What?"

"Oh, you're still there. I thought you'd hung up. Or died."

She made an exasperated noise. _If I had, would you've known?_

"Why didn't you tell me you came back?" It exploded out of her; until that moment, she hadn't even known that there were words for the ache.

"Huh?"

"You've been back for - what - six months? Eight? I only found out because Daphne sent me this picture of you on some magazine cover."

"But it's wouldn't have been a surprise if everyone knew beforehand. See - it worked, right? You were surprised. _Very_ surprised."

"Yes," she admitted tersely, "I _am_ very surprised."

There was a pause.

"You're upset," Puck said, and Sabrina heard the hint of bewilderment just before he fell to his usual snark. "Not that I care, in case you're wondering."

The real surprise, Sabrina reflected then, was in realizing that Puck's statement was spot-on. Just like that, he'd perfectly summed up this _thing_ they had: she had zero immunity, he was invulnerable; it was constantly on her radar, he was blissfully oblivious.

" _You_ could've called, too," he said suddenly.

"Me? You were traveling the _world_!"

"And you were stuck in _school_. I didn't know what the visiting hours were, if they even _had_ visiting hours."

"Of course they do. I mean, there aren't any visiting hours. It's not a mental institution, Freakhead. We get to eat and sleep and go out like everyone else after classes are out."

"And how was I supposed to know that? I've never been to school! And besides, Marshmallow said -" Puck's voice abruptly faltered. "She said you were . . . busy."

"Busy?" Sabrina rolled her eyes. _Why would schoolwork stop anyone from talking on the phone? Or visiting?_

Light suddenly dawned. _Her dates. Daphne must've told Puck about them. But why would she? Her little sister had been their number one matchmaker since they'd first discovered what they'd become in the future. The last thing she'd do was rub it in Puck's face that there were other guys in her life. Unless. . ._

"Have you been spying on me, Puck?"

"Spying would imply being in the same country, at least," he returned unapologetically. "No, I was just checking up on my assets."

 _"Assets?"_ Just when she thought she had hit the limit to her indignation.

"Anyway, it sounded like you wanted your space so I stayed outta the picture. You know - three's a crowd, etcetera, etcetera," Puck continued, blase. " 'Sides, I figured I'd be hearing from you when you were good and ready."

Well, touche.

"Um," Sabrina said, "I'm calling you now, aren't I?"

"And it worked, right? See - here we are, talking!"

"You know what? Never mind. There's no -"

"Look, if you're trying to say you missed me, there's no need to be shy. Please, Grimm, we're practically married. _I'm_ not embarrassed. Disgusted, yes, but embarrassed? Heck no. So what is this - are we confessing our feelings now? Well, dang. I suppose we couldn't put it off forever. Fine, I'll go first. I missed you, Stinkface. Life is just that much more boring without a partner in crime. Or a sidekick for laughs."

From that point, the conversation dissolved hopelessly into their usual bicker-and-banter. After she'd ended the call, she came to the conclusion that the future she'd seen had been a cosmic mistake. There was no way it would happen, not in the next millennium, not while they couldn't even talk about themselves without sounding like they were duking it out in a courtroom.

However, his words haunted her for weeks after: _You could've called, too. I didn't know what the visiting hours were._

Maybe he wasn't the only one keeping their distance.

 _Did Faerie have visiting hours?_

* * *

Faerie as she remembered it, was wholly different. To be fair, it had been almost a decade since she was last there, and then it'd been helmed by Puck's parents, both of whom were proponents of the old ways, mafia-esque intimidation methods and 1980s-style power suits. That Faerie was a surreal other dimension of sly elegance and mercurial once-overs, which you'd have been a fool to enter and an even greater fool to hope to leave.

This Faerie that greeted her when she'd offered her token knock-knock joke (at least that part stayed the same), however. . . she had to blink twice to be sure she hadn't ended up at the nightclub her friends had earlier tried to drag her to. She wondered if she'd stumbled upon a random revel or if Puck had remodeled his entire kingdom into one never-ending cabaret.

Lights exploding in starbursts. A sea of writhing bodies. The soul-numbing throb of electric bass. And drinks. Trays of clinking, bubbling flutes and goblets and chalices in a riot of colors, floating past on the arms of beautifully-dressed servers. Smells hit her from every side - not the tang of alcohol she was accustomed to in her world, but the sweet fragrance of nature's bounties: flowers and meadows on summer afternoons, early spring dew, the dying heat in an evening rainfall. And above all, so much noise - it filled her head and heart and every other space in her body, a hum and thrum that took residence in her very essence, making her feel as if she would never know silence again.

"Wow," she thought. " _Someone's_ into wild parties. Wonder what else there is about Puck that I never knew?"

Immediately, she felt like a hypocrite. Wasn't she always saying she'd changed, too? That she wasn't the same person who'd lived in her grandmother's house, solving mysteries and trying to run away from herself? Why shouldn't he be allowed to break away, too?

And speaking of Puck, where _was_ he? Or, more reasonably, where might she begin to search for him in the chaos? Maybe the servers would know; she'd have to grab one and yell over the noise. Feeling stifled, she scanned the crowd as she weighed the merits of shucking her coat and possibly losing it over cooking under the lights and surrounded by body heat multiplied by infinity. She chose to keep it - a little sweat was a small price to pay for not freezing to death on her way out later. In the meantime, she could do with something to drink; her throat was absolutely parched. Whether from trekking through Central Park in the biting winter air or inhaling the myriad of scents through her gaping mouth, she couldn't fathom, but she suddenly craved water.

As if he'd read her mind, a server materialized beside her, tray in hand, on which were clustered plastic bottles of clear liquid. _Aquatelle_ , she read on the label, squinting in the crimson light. She took one and peered at the server, a smiling otherworldly being with limpid eyes.

"Is this water?"

"Aquatelle," he replied, nodding, and mimicked tipping it into his mouth.

"How much?" Sabrina asked, reaching for her backpack.

With a shake of his head, he pushed her hand away and waved her off before melting into the crowd once more.

"Hm. On the house, I guess. Okay, then." She stared at the label, still hesitant. It looked benign, she decided at last in desperation. She uncapped it and drank, then sighed in pleasure. _So good_. It tasted like water, except better, as if Faerie had bottled the sky on a clear autumn day.

A second later, her breath hitched. Her chest squeezed and she gasped as her heart rate rocketed and plummeted twice, thrice, then seemed to slow. Something was wrong. Her body felt unfamiliar, hot and cold all at once, and detached from her mind, her will. She tried to speak, to call out, to lift her hands to signal, but her legs were crumpling, the lights orbiting in dizzying spirals around her, and she heard a scream as she jolted bodies around her on her way down to the floor.

 _I'm having a heart attack_ , the thought blazed through her brain. _I'm going to black out and never wake up again._

But she wasn't. She was conscious, fully lucid as she watched legs shift and shuffle above her body, felt the throb of the beat in the floor beneath. Then there were wide eyes staring down in astonishment, and anxious conversations that cycled in and out of the ambient thrum. Warm hands on her cheeks. Fingertips pressed against her pulse points.

Suddenly, a face appeared right above hers, and her heart jumped. She blinked, trying to focus on the features that were too near, too large, coming even closer.

Then she caught the scent of incense as lips she didn't recognize -or want - pressed determinedly against hers.

* * *

 **A/N: Hello again. This might be the first ever story that I haven't actually finished writing. I'm making it up as I go, which is all kinds of dangerous. But let me tell you what started it - two inane ideas that came out of nowhere. One, the idea that people sometimes coin terms of endearments from desserts, like "cupcake" or "honeybuns". Two, I sew stuff IRL, and sometimes I get frustrated that the clothes I buy in the stores fit really badly, which made me think covetously of well-cut custom suits, and then I found myself wondering what supernaturally beautiful people like Mustardseed and Puck would be like modeling a good suit.**

 **And decided to write a daft story with these two plot points in mind and see where they would take me. I like to think of it as another writing exercise, but really, it's just crazy fun. You guys should try it someday, too. Not just one-shots, but entire multichaps based on unrelated random thoughts.**

 **Also, because it's nice to know how long a story is before you commit to reading it, I'm going to say that I'm writing about 8-ish chapters. This plot (if we can even call it that at this point) feels like it would be an 8-ish chapter one. Maybe 10.**

 **Sorry to leave you on this bit of a cliffhanger. You're probably asking, "Wait, does Puck smell of incense?" The next chapter is actually written already, so I hope it won't be too long before you get to read it and find out!**

 **P.S. My favorite bit is the Titania scene. I love writing her. She's so diva. And her boys wickedly enable her so it's even worse.**

 **~qas**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Three things in this chapter: one, a reunion; two, banter; three, I pull an unthinkably cliche move at the end. Sorry. (Or not.)**

* * *

She was being carried.

Mustardseed, Prince of Faerie, was carrying her deeper into the crowd, where the noise intensified into a roar in her brain. Her brain, which was not only _not_ addled, but acutely aware of her surroundings, just as her other senses were strangely hypersensitive to the lights, sounds and curious, undulating mix of odors in the air.

Her body, on the other hand, was an impotent sack of _useless_. Limp and immobile as she was borne aloft through the denizens of Faerie, she could only stare and blink at the occasional face that leaned in to gawk at the hapless human in the arms of their prince. When she'd first slid to the floor, the dancers had clicked their tongues and sashayed around her supine body as if it were merely an obstacle to trip over. But finally someone had looked down, noticed her panicked eyes and discerned that she wasn't just another reveler taking an accidental nap under the influence of booze and gravity. And then that someone was kneeling by her side, was examining the bottle of Aquatelle that had rolled just out of the reach of her fingers, was putting two and two together with the help of frantic questions fired at anyone who'd stopped gyrating long enough to answer. At least, that's what she'd deduced, given that she hadn't understood any of the unintelligible exchanges resulting.

Then had come the kiss - she hadn't understood that, either. Or the searching look the stranger had given her, as if he were expecting something, or the way he'd shaken his head in resignation when she hadn't kissed back and had continued to lie like a living corpse under his ministrations. She had, however, completely understood his intentions when he'd leaned in a second time. She didn't know which had made her feel sicker: that he was getting his way with her while she was incapable of fighting back, or that in such a setting as that, no one would've thought it amiss for a passionate - if one-sided- encounter to be taking place under their feet.

Suddenly, there'd been a shout, the face yanked away and she'd found herself staring into Mustardseed's blue eyes. Her first thought was how much shorter his hair had been in the magazines - he'd looked remarkably like Puck with it hanging over his eyes now as he'd bent over her. Her second thought was that she'd never seen anyone's expression change more quickly from anger to surprise.

"Sabrina Grimm!" Only because his face was so close as he examined her to be sure he wasn't mistaken that she'd been able to hear him over the music. She'd blinked back desperately, unable to return the greeting. Mustardseed had gently pulled up her eyelids, patted her cheek, then frowned and straightened. Sabrina had heard him bark out something - an order, perhaps, in whatever local tongue they used in Faerie - and then there'd been sounds of a scuffle beside her, and she'd been hoisted into his arms and whisked away on determined steps through the throng, down a corridor, under an arched doorway and into what looked like a lounge.

Now she was set down once more, on something comfortable this time - a chaise, maybe - as Mustardseed said, "You're safe now, Sabrina. In a minute, we -"

Another voice interrupted his, just as familiar, and if Mustardseed had been angry earlier, this newcomer was absolutely livid.

"What happened?" The voice thundered into the room and if Sabrina had been able to, she'd have winced.

"She was lying on the floor in the Great Hall with one of the guests practically on top of her." Mustardseed delivered his report with his usual sobriety, although Sabrina could hear the disgust in his tone.

"Are you sure it's her?"

"Take a look for yourself."

Footsteps padded closer and, for the third time, a face appeared above hers.

The last time she'd seen him, he'd been three years younger, his cheeks three years rounder, eyes half-hidden by unkempt hair the sun (and who knew what else) had muddied to a dirty yellow. Now he was bright and gold from the hair cropped close to his head, to the lashes that framed piercing green of his eyes and the glint of light stubble along his jaw and above his lips. The photos, she thought, didn't do him justice, not by a long shot.

The green eyes slitted. " _Looks_ like her," Puck said hesitantly, then turned to his brother. " _Could_ be her, except I know for a fact that Sabrina Grimm should be stuck in school, which is essentially a prison they never let you out of. Now, it's _possible_ that she broke out of the place - given her history of breaking out of places like foster homes and her own grandmother's house, I wouldn't put it past her. But she also _hates_ being the center of attention, so even if this _is_ her, why would she be making out on the floor of the Great Hall? There are plenty of rooms just off to the side for that kind of thing."

If she could have, she would have gasped in outrage. As it was, Sabrina only scrunched up her eyes and silently exhaled as Mustardseed clarified, "It wasn't consensual. She's paralyzed. She hasn't even been able to speak."

Puck's gaze had flicked to his brother as he spoke, but now it returned to her, and the concern in it surprised her. It made her want to laugh, wish she could toss out a sarcastic remark. Once more, she willed her useless body to summon the power of speech. _Work, you stupid mouth, work!_

"Paralyzed? Why? Is she sick? Dying? Anyone see what happened? Did she walk in or was she dragged in like this?" Puck fired off questions no one in the room had answers for.

"Apparently, one of the guards saw her fall and sent word because she was human. He thought she'd wandered into the party by mistake. I got to her just in time to yank that guy off her."

"Ugh!"

Barely a grunt, but nonetheless sufficient for sensitive Fae ears, the sound turned the brothers' faces as one toward Sabrina.

Who channeled all her strength into her arm, imagining herself lifting it an inch, two inches, three inches . . . but in reality all she managed was a wiggle of her fingers and the tremor of her wrist. Still, it was as if that massive effort had broken through _something_ , and her face relaxed, her body twitched, then spasmed, then - even though it felt like she was submerged in glue - _moved_.

Puck was by her side in an instant, kneeling with his face close to hers.

"Grimm?"

She blinked at him, trying to form his name, but it was as if after her mouth had fallen slack, her lips had decided it was too much effort to come together once more. "Uhk," she coughed out.

Puck eyed her, considering.

"Sounds like her, too," he decided. "She always did speak like a caveman. She sounds drunk, at any rate. What'd she have?"

Sabrina attempted a glare, but her face remained happily stupefied as Mustardseed produced the bottle of Aquatelle. For a few seconds, Puck could only stare in disbelief.

"Let me get this right," he sounded like he was holding back laughter, "somehow Sabrina Grimm, who _never_ leaves her school, _broke out_ of her school, made her way in a blizzard to Faerie, where some filthy swine got her drunk on water so he could have his way with her on the floor of my Great Hall in front of all my guests. And they say reality TV is dumb."

Anger flooded through Sabrina. _Moron! After all I did for you!_

Mustardseed cleared his throat. "The filthy swine in question is a Prince of the Northern Court."

"Oh!" Puck exclaimed bitterly, "Well, it just gets better and better! Now I'll have to challenge him to a duel to avenge her honor, and then I'll have to kill him, after which his puny kingdom will retaliate, together with their allies in the hill country, who've been itching to have it at us for centuries and were just waiting for a reason, which we'd have just handed to them, and we'll have to put up arms ourselves to avoid being slaughtered, and just like that, I'll have started a war with the _entire_ Evendale region over a bottle. _Of. Water_!"

 _Self-centered pig!_ Sabrina thought, boiling with frustration.

"Fairy water," Mustardseed amended. "Sabrina Grimm has a magical addiction, does she not? Her paralysis could be a natural reaction to magical water."

"You're missing the point! It's _water!_ If I have to go to war, at least let it be over a good wine. Chardonnay, if not even a cheap Merlot. Not _water!_ " Puck repeatedly slapped his palm against his forehead.

 _If I had control of my hands, it'd be_ my _fists against your forehead!_

"Calm down, Puck. Nobody's starting a war. However, if you don't deal with the prince soon, his court will hear of it and the war you so want to avoid might just begin on its own."

"He in the dungeons?"

"What? Of course not. He's not a prisoner. We put him in the Executive Office."

Puck looked sulky. "There's not enough space in there to flay him. And Mother hates it when we get blood all over the mahogany."

"There will be _no_ bloodshed! He's not a criminal. He's -"

"He _kissed_ Sabrina! Under _my_ roof!"

Mustardseed swallowed an inane urge to laugh at his brother's outrage. He schooled his features into something that he hoped resembled sympathy.

"According to witnesses, he didn't look as if he were enjoying it."

Puck's eyebrows shot upward. "What's _that_ supposed to mean? Are you implying that Sabrina was -"

"I'm not implying anything. I was angry, too, but on further reflection, I think it might've been a misunderstanding -"

"What _possible_ misunderstanding can there be when someone _kisses_ a paralyzed person without -"

"Just _go_ ," Mustardseed sighed. "And _talk_ to him, brother; all we have now are questions. Maybe he has some answers."

Sabrina heard Puck swear as he marched to the door.

"Please _attempt_ to act like a King -" Mustardseed called after him.

Puck slammed the door so hard the hinges rattled.

"- and not a jealous lover," the younger prince finished weakly.

* * *

Alone once more with Sabrina, Mustardseed rubbed his temples gingerly, then glanced at her.

"I'm sorry this had to happen, Sabrina. If you are indeed Sabrina, I mean. Regardless, just rest now. We'll get this all fixed, soon. I'll call for our healer to look at you."

The next minutes dragged by with far more calm. The healer was summoned and as they waited for his arrival, Sabrina heard Mustardseed issue instructions for more security to be stationed at the revel in the Great Hall. She concentrated on working her extremities. It took all her energy, but she gamely pursed and unpursed her lips, blinked her eyes, and tried to ascertain the range of motion of her neck.

" _Meathead_!"

The door flew open again with a bang to admit an incensed Puck. The hair on one side of his head was standing at a strange angle, as if he'd been violently clutching and yanking on it.

Mustardseed said calmly, "I'm guessing that it didn't go well."

"He's still alive, if that's what you're afraid of," Puck fumed. "I talked to him. But guess what? All I got back was nonsense."

"Don't be offensive, Puck. It's a foreign language."

"I know two hundred and sixty seven foreign languages, thanks to Father's multitude of tutors."

"And?" Mustardseed obliged tiredly.

"Stupidese isn't one of 'em."

Sabrina had an unexpected urge to giggle, but Puck was continuing his tirade.

"I questioned him about what happened, what he did to Sabrina, right? And do you know what the perv said?"

"No, but I'm sure you're about to tell -"

"He said 'kiss, kiss, kiss' and 'love, love, love' and made smoochy lips. _Smoochy lips!_ At _me_!" Puck's disgust was evident in his voice. "First Sabrina, and now me! What next? My entire guest list? Random pieces of furniture?"

" _Focus_ , brother."

"I'll show you _focus_! I told him he was a degenerate piece of filth and I'd have loved nothing more than to gut him and stuff every slimy bit that spilled out back in through those smoochy lips of his. Instead, I was very graciously inviting him to make himself comfortable in my dungeon because it would be his new home for however long I saw fit, although if he even thought about chatting up anyone else in Faerie, I would instantly string up his insides like a welcome banner across its stinking threshold. And just to be sure he understood I wasn't standing down for cowardice or - hell forbid - _mercy_ , I made it crystal clear that sending his butchered corpse back to his people would only risk starting a war with his worthless kingdom that I wasn't interested in wasting my time with."

"Oh dear," Mustardseed said. "And how did he take it?"

"Get ready for it: he just kept bowing and _thanking_ me, and saying "mercy" and "home" over and over. The addlebrain actually thought I was going to be merciful and let him go home! Well, he'll figure it out after a century or two of eating swill and maggots in his own waste, ha ha ha. Bozo! The only thing worse than not being allowed to punch someone's lights out is for that someone to sincerely thank me for it."

Mustardseed exhaled. "The fortuitous blessings of miscommunication. Stars be praised."

"Look, just get him out of my sight," Puck deflated at last. "I've totally changed my mind about keeping him. Just having him in the dungeon has lowered the average intelligence of my entire kingdom by half. Send him home to daddy in the north so he can wallow and _die_ with the rest of the northern Fae. Bunch of numbskulls. We shouldn't have even invited them to the revel. It was all _your_ fault - you said it was for goodwill. And now look."

"Well, at least we got him away from Sabrina."

"If this _is_ Sabrina. It's hard to introduce yourself when you're catatonic."

Sabrina took a deep breath. During Puck's rant, she'd figured out how to prove her identity and explain her reason for being in Faerie. She would produce the cupcake and he'd understand everything! All she had to do was find her backpack. And also somehow miraculously regain control of all her faculties in the next ten seconds.

 _Okay, baby steps, Sabrina. Speech first - you can do it. Just_ one _word._

"Cuh . . ." she began, lifting her hand to point, gesture, vainly flop, whatever.

Both brothers swiveled around, approached and leaned in, as if she were a person on her deathbed about to reveal a desperate secret with her final breath.

"Cuh . . .p . . . k." She inhaled and focused everything in one monumental effort. "Cupcake." She slurred out, pawing at Puck.

Mustardseed's eyebrows shot up. "Terms of endearment now? She's officially wasted."

Puck immediately recoiled. "Okay. No way is this Grimm. Grimm calls me Stinkbottom and Pukeface and Farthead. But never food - unless it's rancid, I mean. This is clearly some pooka wearing her skin. Look, it even has the little mole under her left eye." He poked her cheek. "Hey, you! What have you done with Sabrina Grimm? You'd better start talking fast, or I will be forced to _help_ you find your voice. And believe me, you won't just be talking then, you'll be _singing_."

Sabrina had seen Puck interrogate prisoners in the war and until she'd witnessed it for herself, she hadn't truly understood this side of him: battle-bred, relentless, formidable, and certainly more than just a boy with a fetish for pranking and goofing off. Frustration finally gave way to alarm as she realized the trouble she was in if Puck thought her not only an imposter, but someone who might have hurt the girl he'd sworn to protect.

Well, she'd have to put on the facial calisthenics performance of a lifetime, then, and pray he was good at slow-mo lip reading. She inhaled deeply and in the tense silence, she heard something rustle against her ribcage.

The gift.

The gift that her roommate had teased her about, the DIY marvel that was the triumphant result of too many hours on Youtube instead of swotting for her Economics paper. Thank heavens she hadn't decided to shuck her parka, in whose inside pocket she'd carefully stashed the blessed thing instead of having it be crushed in her backpack. Her backpack which could be anywhere in Faerie now, kicked about by the dancing feet and the stomping guards. Maybe fate was smiling on her after all.

 _Please don't kill me yet_ , she willed Puck with her eyes as she painstakingly raised her hand to her neck and fumbled for her zipper, then laboriously tugged it down. It was like moving through treacle, but she gummed her lips together and concentrated on not letting go. One inch, two, three. . .

"Whoa." Mustardseed's eyes filled his face. "Now she's _undressing_. Maybe I uh. . . I should leave you two alone."

He stood up hurriedly, but Puck pulled him back down without even looking at him, because heaven help him, he couldn't pull his eyes away from the slow descent of the zipper pull.

"Don't be an idiot," he hissed, but Mustardseed noticed that his brother sounded uncertain. Or distracted.

"She's reaching for something," Mustardseed continued his play-by-play in an ominous tone. "Could be a weapon."

Sabrina flicked her eyes to him and shook her head infinitesimally.

"Or her lipstick," Puck sniggered. "That's what always happens in the movies. Such a letdown."

"What movies have you been watching? In the ones I've seen, it's a weapon. Always a weapon."

By now, Sabrina had gotten the package out and thrust it at Puck. Although _thrust_ might've been overstating it - it quivered in her hand before slipping through her fingers and flopping onto Puck's lap, where both brothers stared at it in silence.

"She dumped her trash on you," Mustardseed said at last.

Puck picked up the wad of paper and turned it over in confusion. Something rattled within the creased layers.

"Or maybe it's a bomb," Mustardseed insisted.

"Birth . . . day. . ." Sabrina dragged out the words over the span of what felt like eternity.

"There," Mustardseed concluded, satisfied, "It's an assassination attempt. Asp in a basket of fruit, poison in the wine flagon, and now anthrax in wrapping tissue. Times may have changed but there are always the fools who will fall for the winsome maiden, and pay dearly for it."

Puck cocked his head, pointedly ignoring his brother, and carefully peeled back the folds.

"It _is_ trash," Puck breathed in wonder, holding up a drinking straw and several Q-tips.

"No love note?" Mustardseed ventured with a completely straight face.

Puck shook his head as he stuck the straw in his mouth and dutifully sucked. Exasperated, Mustardseed clicked his tongue. "Did you not hear what I just said? It could be full of poison!"

"B - bl. . . blowwww." Sabrina squeaked out, her tongue thick.

Puck glanced at her, the straw dangling like a cigarette from his lips and suddenly, something seemed to click. He turned over the Q-tips in fascination.

"Loaded!" He exclaimed in surprise. "See - the tip's sharp! You could actually kill someone with this!"

"I don't know whether to laugh or cry," Mustardseed muttered in resignation.

Puck dropped the straw onto his palm. Like a child trembling in excitement over a treasured plaything, he stuffed a Q-tip into one end and put the other end back into his mouth. Then with a burst of air from his lips, the Q-tip launched out into the air, barely missing Mustardseed's ear, and embedded itself in the far wall, puffy end vibrating like an angry bee.

"It's a blowpipe!" Puck announced in joy. "I've always wanted one of these. I've read about them - naked men in jungles shoot poison darts out of tubes like these to kill, well, anything. This is awesome!"

He beamed down at Sabrina in adoration. "Awwwww. Look at that - she went all Martha Stewart and made me a deadly weapon for my birthday. And then she wrapped it in trash paper and tried to hand-deliver it at my revel but got rip-roaring drunk instead and some lowlife tried to get handsy with her. Yep, it's Grimm, all right. I swear, every time she's in Faerie, she drinks something dangerous and has to be rescued. I suppose this is an improvement - last time she just about died. I tell ya, Snotface, we gotta keep you away from the eats. Well, let's get you to my rooms to sleep this one off."

He tucked his new toy carefully into his pocket, bent and slid his arms under her body and hoisted her against his chest. "No more drinks for you, nitwit."

Sabrina tried to struggle. Her backpack! Her backpack with the cupcake in it! She'd fought two tourists and one Wall Street who-knew-what in a wool suit for that cupcake! She _had_ to let the princes know.

"Cupcake," she breathed desperately against Puck's neck. This time, he blushed. "Aw, Grimm, wait till we don't have an audience, can't you?"

She shook her head weakly, tried to point, then gave up and collapsed against him.

* * *

"It's not poison, so it's not an antidote that we need. And it's not a hex or curse, either."

"Well, what _is_ it?"

"I can't be sure, Your Majesty. Did she . . . eat anything?"

"How would I know? She drank water, and went under."

"But that makes no sense. Water is harmless."

In the privacy of his suite, Puck glared at the healer who was bending over Sabrina and feeling her pulse. "It's magic water, and she's allergic to magic. Any fool could tell she's having what is known in the human world as a 'reaction'! "

The healer straightened, brow furrowed. "If it were a reaction, Sire, she would have retched, her skin blistered with sores or turned all shades of the rainbow. She would be fevered, not paralyzed. This is dark magic."

"It's time-wasting, is what it is. An hour ago, she could at least murmur and turn her head. Now she's just staring. It's getting worse and -"

"- and then she will die," the healer announced loudly, relieved that at last he had something to say about which he had some confidence.

Puck's eyes blazed. "If I'd wanted a bleak prophecy, I would've just read today's news headlines! Your job is to heal, so find a way to heal her, you imbecile!"

The healer wilted, finally realizing the position he was in. "If I could just consult my books . . . " he swallowed, "I will have my apprentice -"

Puck lost the last vestiges of his composure. "Fine! Go read your stupid books! But if Grimm flatlines while you're having story time with your apprentice, I will have your skin dried into parchment for your obituary!"

The healer fled without so much as a bow.

In the peace following his ungracious departure, Puck cradled his head in his hands. "Stars, I miss you, Cobweb. These nincompoops we've had since couldn't even heal a nosebleed. Maybe Mustardseed is right - our isolation is slowly killing us. We need to get out and find others. Or at least a new medic."

He turned back to Sabrina, now ramrod straight, her eyes staring upward. His face was hard with harsh lines from his outburst but now it softened as he glanced at her. He'd always thought her eyes were arresting - not that he'd ever admit it - blue fire when she was laughing, jeweled ice when she was staring down the enemy. But now he could hardly bear to look at them - the white and the blue, goggling back, unnatural, too much. In response, she blinked at him - _at least she can still blink_ , he thought with misery - and he knelt and took her hand. It felt stiff in his, not limp as he would expect from a person in a coma.

 _Because she's not in a coma_ , he staunchly reminded himself. _She can hear every word I say._

He gulped.

She could hear every word he said.

"Grimm." He sounded almost stern in his excitement. " _Can_ you hear me? Blink once for yes, two for no."

She blinked once.

" _Are_ you Sabrina Grimm?"

One blink.

"Huh. Let's see if you can prove it. Two years ago, I mailed you a box on your birthday with a crone's foot in it. How many toes were on it?"

Four blinks.

"Huh. Anyone could've guessed that. Okay, what was its purpose? Multiple choice now. Blink once for 'back scratcher', blink twice for 'toenail fungus to cure hairy legs' and blink thrice for 'ingredient for potion to hex enemies with eternal two left feet'."

Sabrina rolled her eyes before blinking them twice.

Puck crossed his arms over his chest in satisfaction. "Congratulations! You passed Phase I. Alrighty, let the interrogation begin. Did you drink the Aquatelle?"

One blink.

"Did you eat or drink anything else?"

Two blinks.

"Did anyone do anything to you?"

 _Did anyone do anything to her?_ She rolled her eyes again. One blink.

"What?" Puck leaned forward, glaring. "Who?"

 _Do I need to roll my eyes a third time?_ She glowered, eyes slits. _Think, Stupid!_ _Someone tried to kiss me!_

"Oh!" Light dawned. "That handsy kissy loser!"

One _very_ ferocious blink.

"Well, let me rephrase that question. Sorry about that, by the way. He shouldn't've when you couldn't, you know, punch him back or anything," he grinned at her. "That was low of him. No chivalry at all."

Sabrina slammed her eyelids up and down so vigorously Puck thought she was having a seizure.

"What? What are you trying to say?" He leaned closer, as if it made a difference to the silence between them. "He _didn't_ . . . _want_ to kiss you?"

Two deliberate blinks, in which Sabrina channeled all her latent sarcasm.

"But he did anyway," Puck continued.

One blink.

"Why?"

 _Come on, Stinkface. You can put two and two together. Think! Think!_

Puck's expression changed.

"No. It can't be. _Surely_ not. That's so. . . _lame_."

Sabrina closed her eyes and released the breath she'd been holding. It whistled through her nose, the only sound in the room as Puck continued to stare at her. She opened her eyes once more and fixed him with her gaze, and then gave him one slow blink.

"But it didn't work," he mumbled, confused, leaning away and staring into the distance. "He was a prince! It _always_ works with princes!"

 _Unbelievable_ , she marveled. _So close and still so stupid_.

"Oh," Puck said as, once again, his brain kicked in. "Because _he_ wasn't. . . "

Slowly, a dull flush colored his cheeks as he cast her an awkward look. "Ah, so. . . riiiight. Um, but _we're_. . . but - what if . . ."

Sabrina let her gaze drop to his lips and lifted it back up again to lock on his eyes.

One blink. _Try. Please._

"This is _worse_ than reality TV," Puck grumbled as he slid his palm over her cheek, bent and brushed his lips over hers.

And then drew back, silent and expectant.

As Sabrina sucked in a shuddering breath, bolted upright, clutched her abdomen and threw up all over him.


	5. Chapter 5

Puck froze with the contents of Sabrina's gut dripping unhampered off his face and hair and onto the equally sopping front of his shirt. Only his eyelids moved, blinking away the wetness as he stared down at himself and the splotches on the ruined bedcovers that were gradually fusing into one another. Then, with deadly calm, he raised his hand and slowly wiped it across his mouth.

" _Why_ ," he hissed at last, "is it _always_ pain and suffering?" Lifting his gaze, his face finally alive in an expression of utter betrayal, he choked out, "In all my life, I've kissed you twice - only twice! - and _both_ times it was pain and suffering. Okay, maybe the atmosphere needed work, but this -" he indicated the condition of his clothes and sheets, "- is _not_ how to encourage encores, just so you know."

Her own face raised to the ceiling, Sabrina swallowed great gulps of air. It would be some moments before she was able to speak, and Puck filled the silence with more lamentation.

"Also, this is supposed to be a fairytale. And in fairytales, when the prince kisses the -" he turned a vitriolic look on her, "-undeserving _wretch_ of a spell victim, she _always_ has the courtesy to awaken gently. _Gently_! Often accompanied with joy and wonder and adoration! And in the _best_ of those stories, even with bashful genuflections of _gratitude_. But never, _never_ has she _ever_ emptied her lunch all! Over! Her! Savior!"

Sabrina braced herself against the clammy sheets, finding her voice at last. "That's the PG version, sucker. In the _original_ stories, there's vomiting and morning breath and harassment suits and everything. When they rewrote them for children, they left out all the special effects."

"If I ever had any doubts it was you, that statement put them to rest once and for all," Puck sulked, flinging his hands and watching droplets scatter. With a particularly malevolent glare, he spat out before turning away, "You're welcome, by the way."

Sabrina felt the tiniest twinge of guilt before remembering that it was magic water from Puck's kingdom that had caused all this, and that magic water had now come full circle on his person and bedclothes. Loftily, she said, "I was afraid you were never gonna get it, and then I'd actually die."

"I shoulda let you."

"Well, that was smart, asking me questions like that, and having me answer by blinking my eyes."

The only response was a grunt.

Undaunted, Sabrina grinned at him. "Ha! True love's kiss. Whoda thought?"

He scowled even more. "Beyond cliche."

"I know, right?"

" _I_ shoulda been the one who barfed." Puck grumbled, wiping his hands on whichever parts of his pants had escaped Sabrina's projectile vomit. "So, when did you figure it out?"

"When Mustardseed said that prince guy didn't look like he was enjoying himself. I mean, when it was all happening on the floor. I had no idea who he was, or that he was trying to wake me up. I only thought . . . you know. . . and I was just freaking out inside." She bit her lip before continuing. "Anyway, when Mustardseed said that, I realized that yeah, it actually felt more like mouth-to-mouth than . . . _kissing_."

Puck grunted. "And _you_ would know."

Sabrina didn't imagine the flash of hurt that momentarily twisted his face. Once again, guilt pricked her and she contemplated apologizing, then stopped herself. _No expectations._

"After that," she concluded, keeping her voice neutral, "it slowly came together. It was a no-brainer."

Puck said nothing, but he didn't look angry anymore.

"Thanks?" Sabrina offered tentatively, sensing the storm had passed. "Hey, look at it this way: you totally one-upped him. I mean, his kiss totally bombed."

Out of the corner of his her eye, she saw him try - and fail - to hide a smug smile. He sighed dramatically to cover it. "Yeah. Whatever. Anyway, I couldn't possibly just let you die, right? You'd have done the same for me."

 _Would_ she have done the same for him? And even if she had, would it have _worked_? In an earlier time, when she'd been new to this romance thing, when he'd swept her off her feet with his loyalty and heroics and roguish charm, the answer might've been obvious. But now . . .

She inhaled as she prepared to disabuse him once more, and instantly regretted it - the acrid scent that hit her nostrils combined with the taste in her mouth turned her stomach. Her face wrinkled in reflex.

Puck misread her expression and set his jaw defensively. "You did, back with the poisoned apple, remember?"

"Yes, but -"

 _That was before Matt and Ansel, and -_

"We were children then," she said softly. _And there weren't all these years between us._

He rose like he'd sat on a pin. "Well, I need a shower." His tone was laced with disdain, but Sabrina heard both the anger and the tremor that it was meant to hide.

* * *

As if the water had sloughed off both the physical and emotional effects of their earlier interaction, Puck emerged from the shower much more like his old self. When Sabrina edged past him into the bathroom to rinse out her mouth, her eyes strayed to his bare torso and her cheeks pinked slightly. Almost as if he'd been expecting this, Puck smirked knowingly at her but remained graciously silent. When she joined him later in the room, her face still damp, she noticed that her backpack was lying on the floor beside the bed.

"The servants found it," he supplied, seeing her eyes light up. "It might've been trampled on a bit, but it's still in one piece."

Sabrina knelt and unzipped it and there, nestled among the rest of the contents, was the cupcake box. One corner was crushed but otherwise it'd been protected by her sweater from worse damage. She pulled both out, grimly dragging the sweater down over her body as if it were armor and held out the cupcake box to Puck. He raised an eyebrow in curiosity.

"Cupcake," she pronounced, a little too smugly, and watched Puck's face slacken as the puzzle pieces of the past hours fell into place at last.

"Happy birthday," she added when he said nothing.

He took the box and flipped open the lid. The cupcake had listed to the side, and most of the frosting now coated the wall of the box, but it looked completely edible and, at least from where she sat, smelled divine. He dipped his nose to it.

"Caramel pecan," he declared, smiling, and at his genuine pleasure, Sabrina smiled back. "My favorite. You remembered."

"Yep." It was one of the few personal details she knew about him. He'd mentioned it once, years earlier when she still recognized the boy who'd shared her childhood in Ferryport Landing. Jake had taken him ice fishing in Alaska on his birthday and all he'd had to eat for two days were smoked salmon and overripe melon. Puck had texted Sabrina to say that he'd have killed for cake, then proceeded to list about 50 kinds, in order of preference. It'd been easy for her to pull it from her memory as she'd stood in the bakery, waiting to do battle with Wall Street execs for the last cupcake in the display. "And Magnolia's is the best."

"I'll be the judge of that," Puck replied skeptically, and swiped a dollop of frosting with his finger, which he then popped in his mouth and sucked on in bliss. "It's not -"

Unexpectedly, his eyes widened and rolled violently back in their sockets as, to Sabrina's horror, he slumped into a heap on the floor. For a single, surreal moment, she watched the box land ungracefully beside him, wet side down.

In the next instant, she came to her senses and was by his side. "Puck!" She cried, shaking him, but only succeeded in scrubbing his cheek against the carpet.

 _He's not dead_ , she consoled herself as her sensibilities kicked in, _but just in case I should check his breathing_. With a loud oomph, she rolled him onto his back. In spite of the jolt as he landed, his eyes stayed closed, and he looked peacefully asleep, his chest rising and falling in unhurried rhythm.

"If you're faking," she warned, and poked his side, stroked the hollow under his chin and wormed her fingers into his armpits. But all her attempts to tickle him into consciousness came to naught - he remained unresponsive, catatonic.

 _Slap!_ Her hand hit his cheek with more force than she'd intended but he continued to lie unwaking, his head lolling in the rebound. She tried chest compressions next, pinching his nose and examining his airway as she'd been taught. Again, nothing.

Finally, she she sat back on her knees, defeated. He was breathing, he had a heartbeat, there was nothing choking him that she could tell; what could possibly be wrong with him?

She thought about summoning the healer, then remembered that the healer was in a conference with his books and apprentice, trying to find a cure for _her_ passing out. _Clearly useless,_ she decided; better to figure out a solution on her own. Maybe even wait it out - for all she knew, Magnolia's famous caramel pecan cupcake had indeed lived up to its reputation and Puck had simply fainted from the incomparable deliciousness it all.

But . . . what if he'd been poisoned? Poison wasn't something out of the ordinary in a place like Faerie, nor was it improbable that someone might want to assassinate the King with it. After all, poison had claimed Oberon, and would've claimed her, too, had Puck himself not intervened in time and saved her. She thought back to her own misadventure with the bottle of Aquatelle - what if that hadn't been an accident and someone had deliberately knocked her out so they could lace her cupcake, knowing she'd brought it for him? Puck had said he didn't know what had happened to Moth. What if -

Her mind filling with about a hundred worst-case scenarios, Sabrina raced to the door and flung it open to shout for help, for Mustardseed, for medics and healers and magicians and witches and -

She paused as another thought hit her, a sly, insidious whit of a suggestion.

"You have _got_ to be kidding me," she muttered, rolling her eyes. For a few seconds, she stood with her hand braced against the door jamb and wrestled with herself, pitting logic against faith in all things crazy. Then, slowly and uncertainly, she shut the door and glanced back at the boy lying on the floor.

"It's not gonna work," she protested aloud to the empty room. Inside her, cynicism and hope wrestled a tug rope, the knot at stalemate, neither side gaining. "That was years ago. That was before I'd moved on, before we _both_ moved on."

She looked at his face, vulnerable and beautiful in slumber.

The knot slipped ever so slightly.

She turned and walked toward him. "Nope. _Not_ gonna work."

Knelt beside his body. "We're not like . . . that . . . anymore."

Brought her face to his. "I'm just saving your life."

Pressed her lips against his. "Like when we were children."

Closed her eyes. "Please work."

Felt her hair shift.

His hand was in it, on her neck, on her cheek, then both hands held her face between them, and he was kissing her back, and the only thought that made it into her brain through the haze was _that prince had_ nothing _on this._

"Not _at all_ like when we were children," he whispered when she finally - and much later than she should've - pulled away.

She bolted into a sitting position. "How did you hear what -?" Her eyes burned. "You were _faking_?"

"The kiss? Nope. Meant every second of it."

"No! I meant you were awake! The whole time!"

Puck propped himself up on one elbow. "Like we said earlier, they don't call me the Trickster King for my goodwill toward men - or women."

"Filthy conman!" Sabrina backed away, hissing.

"And so the terms of endearment begin. Why, I missed you too, sweetlips."

"I - I thought you were poisoned!"

"Why would you think that?"

"Well . . . because _I_ was."

"Hm. So why didn't you call for help?"

"Your medic is incompetent!"

"True, that. But you could've called Mustardseed. Or used your phone to dial 911, or whatever."

 _Like 911 would work in the Twilight Zone_. Sabrina rolled her eyes.

"Instead, you kissed me," Puck pressed.

"Power of suggestion!" Sarcasm thickly laced Sabrina's words. "We were just talking about it not five minutes ago!"

"When you told me in not so many words that you didn't think it'd work for you."

"Yeah, but -"

"And yet you tried anyway."

"Because - !" Sabrina sputtered, staring wide.

"Because . . .?" Puck queried, his face cherubic.

And all she managed in response was an expression of having sucked on life's sourest lemons. Puck leaned back and with his next words drove the last nail into the coffin, "I have to say, Grimm, that _definitely_ didn't feel like mouth-to-mouth."

She tore her crazed eyes from his, ashamed at being tricked and angry at hearing her own words turned on her. But over everything, there was the nagging thought that maybe he'd been right all along, about her, about _them._ Suddenly she was no longer Sabrina Grimm, Future Lawyer Extraordinaire and Veteran of Romantic Relationships; suddenly she was merely very small and very lost. She hunched over on the carpet and turned her back. She couldn't bring herself to even look at him.

"Grimm?"

"Go away. I don't know anything anymore," she mumbled behind her hands.

They were silent for some moments.

"This is where in the stories they, ya know, _talk_." Puck said at last, and the undisguised horror in his voice almost made her laugh. Almost.

"Pretty sure there's no way we can talk our way out of this," she said flatly.

"So, we're _not_ gonna talk about this?" Hope replaced horror.

"Let's not."

"This must be my lucky day." Puck's relief was almost palpable. "Alriiiight! Moving on now! Well, I don't know about you, but I'm just about sick of this dig. What say you we ditch?"

Glad for the change in subject, Sabrina finally looked at him. "Um. . . aren't you the guest of honor? Shouldn't you wait till people have all gone home?"

"I could, but we could be waiting a week, maybe longer. Clearly you've never been to a revel - these things go on until all the food is gone and the guests have danced themselves to death or eaten each other in their ravenous hunger."

"You're kidding."

"Only about the dancing to death. Usually the musicians are the first to get eaten. And speaking of ravenous hunger, I'm craving a greasy burger and a truckload of fries. I'd order us some from the kitchens but given how you passed out from our water, I'm guessing our food would probably kill you on the spot. Safer to eat out. Come on - I know a diner where the menu is outta this world and the staff doesn't ask questions."

Still incredulous, she continued to sit, but he looked completely serious as he jumped to his feet and frowned down at her when he noticed she hadn't followed suit.

"Look -" he cajoled, "until you turned up, this party was a total washout - just a bunch of losers wiggling to obnoxious music and getting drunker by the second. Then you came and there was inappropriate behavior and violence, and I got to chew out some sniveling prince in our Exec Office and you almost died, and I was forced to profess my love for you while saving your butt. _Again_. You're like one of those clowns that people in your world rent for their children's parties, except a million times more awesome because you almost started a war!"

"Starting wars is not a good thing, moron."

"Says you. _I_ live for 'em. Anyway, I figured we could take the party elsewhere. Maybe if we're really lucky, you'll start a war in Ed's Diner, too. But wait till we're done with the main course, yeah? Shame to do battle on an empty stomach. Mmm... can you hear those fries callin' my name?"

Sabrina suddenly felt like she could eat a truckload of fries, too.

"Shut up, Puck. Fine, let's go." She stood and smoothed out her clothes. "Uh . . . does Faerie have a back door or something? We wouldn't want people noticing we've - _you've_ -left."

"They probably already have," Puck tossed out airily, "and assumed we snuck off to make out somewhere. And they'd be correct."

"We did _not_ make out!"

Puck snorted. "Um, let's see . . . I kissed you, then you kissed me back. Sounds like making out to me -"

"Not the same!"

"-and admit it, I was right: you don't care much for PDA but give you a side room and you're a different animal altogether."

Sabrina stared at him slack-jawed. Then she threw back her head and laughed. She couldn't help it; she'd wanted to be furious at him but it was as if a switch had been flipped, and light and fresh air and sweet relief had flooded her soul. They were going to be okay. They'd just crossed about a hundred boundaries, but he was not making it weird. Somewhere inside this gorgeous, untouchable fashion star was the boy she'd always known, the one who was smelly and sassy and unflappable, the one around whom the world seemed to revolve simply for his pleasure and amusement. Just minutes ago, she'd thought him a stranger but for all the things that had changed, he was somehow still _him_ , and somehow still hers.

"So, just to be clear, this is a not-date, right?" She asked, still grinning.

"Absolutely. It's the perfect follow-up to that not-kiss. Shall we?"

Then he was holding her hand and pulling her through the door and sneaking down the hallway and they were eleven again, running from monsters, from one unknown headlong into another. His fingers were calloused around hers - the fingers of a soldier, not a prince - and she noticed for the first time that he had a scar on the back of his neck, and another along his forearm. _Battle scars_ , she realized, _stories that I wasn't a part of, tales from another time. I can never know them all, but perhaps it's because I never asked and maybe tonight he will tell me some of them._

* * *

With a contented belch, Puck sank against his seat and grinned at Sabrina. On the table between them sat the wilting remains of an obscenely huge basket of fries. They'd finished their burgers - mounds of greasy, cheesy perfection - ages earlier and the bright-eyed server who came by to clear their dishes winked at Puck as she sashayed away. Sabrina stifled a smile as she watched him blissfully pick through the fries, totally oblivious to the attention.

"She's flirting with you, you know," Sabrina noted as he dunked a bunch of them into the house sauce, a benign-looking red paste that packed an unexpected punch.

Puck stuffed the fries into his mouth and rolled his eyes toward heaven in ecstasy. "Didn't notice. But not surprised. She must hate _you_ then for being the lucky recipient of my esteemed company." With a tip of his head, he indicated Sabrina's glass. "I'd check that malt for cyanide if I were you."

Sabrina frowned, not entirely certain that Puck was kidding. He suddenly reached out, claimed her drink and sucked vigorously on her straw. Before she could protest, he'd drained it almost to the bottom.

"Nope. No poison," he declared solemnly, pushing it back to her.

"That was _mine_!" Sabrina exclaimed in outrage. "Moocher! I'm taking yours now!"

"Have it all," Puck offered generously, and Sabrina hesitated, suspicion raising the hairs on her arms.

"Why're you being so nice all of a sudden?"

"What - I can't give you a gift?"

"Puck." Sabrina stared him down.

"Okay, fine. I thought my chocolate-banana-strawberry-mint-caramel surprise needed a little something to take it up a notch so I dropped some of that house sauce in it while you were in the bathroom. But now it's even worse."

"Ha. You used to eat anything and everything. Why so discerning now?"

"I beg your pardon," Puck said in mock offense, batting his eyelashes. " _Now_ , I'm Mr Fancypants Supermodel VIP. People like us only drink malts made from blood diamonds and beluga caviar."

Sabrina snorted. "Beluga are mammals, idiot."

"So?"

"So they don't lay eggs. No eggs, no caviar."

"Well, excuuuuuuse me for flunking biology because I was busy with more important things, like getting my hair styled for my latest photoshoot," Puck returned stubbornly, flipping his hair in an exaggerated gesture. Out of the corner of her eye, Sabrina spied the server sneaking glances at him from near the bar. _Typical_ , she conceded unwillingly, _even standing still, it was hard not to notice him, let alone when he was preening and showing off._

"What's it like?" She asked seriously.

He stopped posturing momentarily. "Modeling? Photoshoots? Being this beautiful?"

She kicked his leg under the table. " _Fame_." She tipped her head subtly toward the server. "All that attention."

"Dunno." He followed her glance, then shrugged. "I've _always_ been famous. Did you forget I was King before this? What's another angle when you're already royalty?"

"Speaking of King, why haven't you -"

"Um, hi."

They both turned at the interruption. Their server was back, her face flushed, her fingers restlessly clasping and unclasping her phone. "Um, are you Robin Goodfellow, the model?"

Puck bestowed a megawatt smile on the flustered girl. "Yes," he said, as charming now as he'd been petulant just seconds earlier.

The server looked like she were about to combust. "OMGOMG! I loooooove your photos! Can I - can you - er. . . selfie?" She thrust out her phone, her eyes wide and pleading, even as coherence abandoned her.

Puck blandly obliged, and the girl gasped and squeezed next to him in his seat as she stretched out her arm out to snap the shot. Unfortunately, she was all thumbs in her nervousness and kept apologizing as Puck chewed nonchalantly on the now-soggy fries. After a few seconds of watching her almost painful bumbling, Sabrina finally offered to take the picture. The server handed over her phone with a mixture of gratitude and resentment and Sabrina composed the image, reaching out to pull a fry out from between Puck's lips. "Cut it out," she hissed.

"Make me," he hissed back and pursed his lips salaciously at her, while the server glanced between them in confusion and despair, then patted her own hair and blinked stoically into the camera. Sabrina had never felt sorrier for anyone in her life.

When they were once again alone, Puck dropped his friendly demeanor and scowled.

"Please," Sabrina brushed off his mood, "Stop sulking. The poor girl was probably going to make that her wallpaper for all eternity and you had _food_ in your mouth. I know you have no table manners whatsoever, but there's something called common decency, Stinker."

"Not that!" Puck muttered. "The dame that runs this place is usually pretty good at privacy and stuff. In all the times I've eaten here, no one has so much as recognized me. Or if they did, they always pretended I was nobody. Which is why I keep coming back, y'know. That server must be new."

"And clearly someone forgot to brief her," Sabrina agreed. "Poor thing couldn't even string a sentence together."

"Well, I do have that effect on people," Puck said. "But I think we're gonna have to find some new places to eat at if th-"

On the table between them, his phone pinged.

"Tweet alert," he said disinterestedly, not even sparing it a glance. "Probably yet another marriage proposal."

"Or maybe that's the photo I just took, and that girl posted it," Sabrina joked.

Puck laughed with her. "Yeah. Hashtag 'HeavenOnEarth'. "

His phone pinged again. And again. And again. Puck finally picked it up and lazily flicked his thumb across the screen. And abruptly straightened.

"Crud." He began frantically scrolling.

"What? What is it?" She leaned forward with a nasty feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"You were right," he admitted grudgingly and turned the screen so she could see the picture on it, and its caption:

 _OMG Robin Goodfellow was at my table tonight! Sooooooooo pumped. His GF took this pix 5 mins ago bcoz I cudn't even hold my own phone straight. #nofaceleft #gorgeous #evenbetterIRL #diehappy._

" _GF_?" Sabrina wheezed out. "I'm not your girlfriend!"

"Missing the point," Puck said, standing and tossing some cash on the table. " _5 minutes ago_ ," he quoted, "and she tagged me. So now all my followers know exactly where I am."

Sabrina swallowed as the significance of his words hit her. "And how - how many followers do you have?"

"Don't ask," Puck said. "Well, dang. The gates of hell are officially open. We need to disappear. Come on!"

They squeezed out of their booth just as an older woman in a dirty apron rushed to their table.

"Your forgiveness, Your Majesty," she said, and as she bowed, Sabrina saw pointed ears peeking out from under her cap. "Rosetta just started yesterday and we didn't have time to explain -"

Puck waved aside her apologies. "Forget it," he barked, eyes flitting around the inside of the restaurant, "you got a back door?"

 _Here we go again_ , Sabrina thought as in wordless urgency, the woman led them through the kitchen and out into a back alley where steam was rising from vents and curling around the dumpsters. The street beyond was quiet.

"False alarm," Sabrina breathed in relief. "You must not have as many fans as you thought."

"Huh," Puck huffed. "We must've gotten lucky. Well, I guess it's time to head home. You wanna to fly, walk, bus or train?"

" _Fly_? In New York City? Are you out of your mind?"

"More often than not," he returned smoothly. "And it adds so much to my naturally sparkling personality. So - walk?"

"Subway," Sabrina decided. "Too cold to walk. We can catch the B train from Rockefeller. It's just around the corner."

They strode out to the main street, then stopped dead in their tracks. Swarming around the front door of the diner was a crowd jostling to get in. Puck took one look and pulled Sabrina back into the shadows.

"It's the crazies," he reported. "They found us after all. And normally this is where I say I Told You So but I'll let you off tonight. There's no way we're walking past that crowd. We'll have to take a side street."

So they did, sneaking glances behind them to be sure they weren't being trailed. When they'd marched three blocks past the diner, Sabrina exhaled loudly. "Does this happen often?" She wondered aloud.

"I don't get out in public much," Puck replied, slowing down at last. "But my fans are everywhere, yeah. There's usually no point dodging 'em because they're pretty harmless; all they want are photos and the chance to touch me and swoon. But _you_ probably wouldn't care for the attention, so that's why we're playing hide and seek this time."

"Thanks," Sabrina told him sincerely.

"Besides, we don't want hordes of jealous females finding out about you and sending you death threats in the mail."

Sabrina shoved him. "Again with the allusions! We're not going to admit -"

"Phooey, this isn't a good route, either," Puck interrupted, throwing out an arm to stop her in her tracks. They'd turned the corner and into view of the sparkling grandeur of Rockefeller Center; even though it was almost midnight, people were bustling around its doors. They looked far too well-dressed to be the tourists typically loitering late on the streets.

"What's going on?" She whispered, feeling like a rat trapped in a maze with no intel and a streak of extraordinarily bad luck.

Puck hunched his shoulders and uselessly pulled up his coat collar to hide his face. "Er, I might or might not have forgotten that we're hosting a benefit at Rockefeller tonight that might or might not be ending about now. And there might or might not be a ton of reporters and other nosy people there who might or might not recognize me."

" _What_?"

Sabrina suddenly realized there were cameras in the crowd. Not personal phone cameras and point-and-shoots, but hulking videocams, along with flash bulbs and all the affiliated press paraphernalia. Forget Puck's besotted fans - this looked suspiciously like all newshounds of the world had come out to party.

"It's for a bunch of inner city hospitals that needed bedpans - or maybe it was doctors. Or something," Puck rambled on in his discomfort, eyeing the benefit attendees streaming out while cameras and reporters converged on them. "Mustardseed's there but I escaped because someone needed to be at the revel in Faerie and -"

"You mean _you_ had to be present at your _own_ birthday party," Sabrina didn't bother hiding her sarcasm, even as she fought to keep her legs from giving out beneath her, "and you ditched even that."

"Who wouldn't?" Puck protested plaintively. "I mean, it was a choice between dying of boredom watching people get drunk, or go on a date with you. No brainer!"

"I thought we agreed it wasn't a date."

"Too late for that. If they see us together," Puck inclined his head toward the crowd, "it won't matter whether you're one of the palace servants I've brought along to carry my shopping - by tomorrow, the tabloids will have us secretly eloped and with a love child on the side. Two, even. From our previous marriages to aliens and serial killers."

"Then let's get outta here," Sabrina pleaded, tugging on his arm. It had taken her all of one second to visualize her future prospects in law school swirling merrily down the toilet along with her reputation. Never mind law school - with the way news spread over the internet, she'd be lucky if she survived the next week in college dragging her scandalous past behind her, fabricated or no. With a shudder, she pulled Puck away, seeking out the street entrance to the subway.

Too late.

Like a nightmare unfolding in blinding technicolor, she saw the lights turn her way as the voices, the fancy clothes, the eyes - all those eyes - closed in on her. Her mind barely registered that they were asking her questions, that flashes were going off, that there were a million cameraphones in her face, not to mention the security police who had noticed them and were now herding bodies this way and that, in and out of her personal space.

She blinked, feeling alone, fighting a wave of anxiety so strong she swore her insides threatened to explode through her ears. _Where the dickens was Puck? Please let him not have gone off to make social media love to the organizers and left me to deal with these wolves like when Mom and Dad disappeared and I had to answer all those questions and talk to those people over and over again because Daphne couldn't and still nobody believed me and it never stopped and all over the news it was all lies about what happened because no one could explain the handprint and oh the wild stories and false leads and worst of all was when even Daphne started to think it was true and -_

Suddenly there were fingers gripping hers and squeezing. She heard Puck's voice in her ear: _breathe, Grimm. You look like you've seen a ghost. You've fought monsters, remember? These people aren't even a fart in the wind. All they want is a story. Let me do the talking. Smile. Fake it till you make it, remember? Remember the Everafter War? Pretend this is a war council and you're about to deliver your battle plans to your generals, who are my chimps. Remember Sullivan? All big teeth and crazy hair and Oh Yes Kiss The Girl. Remember that? Breathe._

The voices were a roar. So many questions. But Puck was fielding them, confident and at ease, throwing out words like I'm Doing Very Well, It's Been A Wonderful Night, Thank You For Your Support.

She closed her eyes and took a breath. And another. _I can do this. I've fought monsters. These are just people - curious but harmless. All they want is a story._

Beside her, Puck threw an arm around her shoulders and said, "This little squirt is my partner in crime." She heard the merriment in his voice, the affection, the sincerity. _Oh, well played, Trickster._

And then the cameras were clicking and the questions were coming again, coming in an avalanche, coming at _her - how did you meet? Why haven't we seen you before? How well do you know him? What does that mean to you - 'partner in crime'? Can you be more specific? You were seen in a diner together - can you elaborate on that? Can you comment on this photo?_

"Keep smiling," Sabrina repeated in her head, her hand in a death hold on Puck's, "they only want a story. Just a story."

 _You're the first girl he's been seen with. Can you tell us if you've made any future plans together?_

 _No, not a story._ Facts _. The_ truth _._

"Future? Let's see - we went to the future and discovered we were married to each other."

She heard the words spoken in her own voice. But she seemed to be listening from somewhere else, a place where she was watching herself dig her own grave even as she beamed dementedly into the lights.

Around them, laughter rippled through the onlookers as the cameras relentlessly captured image after image. Already they were scribbling: _she has a great sense of humor. She can quip like the best of them. Witty. Hilarious._

But Puck's grip, so reassuring just seconds earlier, had suddenly gone slack, his body freezing rigid against hers as mortification descended on her in an icy flush. What madness had possessed her to say that? She knew instinctively that she'd jeopardized something - she didn't know what yet - but it didn't matter, because she couldn't unspeak the words, knew that even if she could, they would return to haunt her anyway, tweet after tweet, headline after headline. Who needed the tabloids to twist her words when she'd handed them over on a silver platter, marinated in crazy and ready for the fire? And what had she done to Puck's mission - the one he and Mustardseed had gambled their kingdom on for the prize of tenuous alliances seesawing with the threat of war?

Then, inexplicably, Puck relaxed and she heard him chuckle along with the crowd, rebounding effortlessly like the showman he was, born to work the crowd and bring it thunderingly to its feet. His arm dropped from her shoulder and settled around her waist as he planted a kiss on her temple.

"Well!" His voice was filled with amusement. "Sorry to disappoint, ladies - and gentlemen - but it seems I'm officially spoken for."

* * *

 **A/N: Ah, hello. Thank you for all the follows and reviews. I hope no one thought I'd abandoned this story. This is just how long it takes me to write in real time :(**

 **Hopefully this chapter was worth the wait. And now, the question: Fake-date? Real-date? Friendzone? Sixty hours on a therapist's couch? Or - wink - a _trampoline_? Tune in next time - until then: peace and crumpets. ~ ****qas.**


	6. Chapter 6

The world had ended.

The world had ended and left Sabrina with a monster of a hangover.

Just twenty-four hours earlier, she'd been a normal girl with a nondescript life. Typical college student, mostly punctual for classes, generally keeping up with her readings and assignments, occasionally taking time off for a party, or to hang with friends at the movies, a nice cafe, on social media. Just twenty-four hours earlier, she could walk down any street in the city and blend into the masses, as faceless as she was anonymous. Just twenty-four hours earlier, she could count on one hand the comments she'd get on a post on Instagram or Facebook. Just twenty-four hours earlier, she was invisible. Gloriously obscure. Nobody to anyone else - unless she chose to be, of course.

She did not remember choosing to be.

Or did she?

A lot could change in twenty-four hours.

Her memory, for one (or the aforementioned lack thereof). One's entire world, as one knew it, with all its safe boundaries, wiped away in an instant.

Her sanity, for another. She'd essentially had a nervous breakdown in front of the biggest press turnout she'd ever seen (which wasn't saying much, considering her avoidance of publicity and all its various trappings). In which she'd somehow informed the entire internet that time travel was a _thing_ and why yes, she'd done it, and hoo boy did she get rock-solid advice from her future self on her current romantic aspirations.

She was pretty sure she'd died immediately after. How else could she explain her total lack of recollection of any events beyond that?

Yes, death. And, for good measure, the FastPass lane to the underworld.

Daphne was calling her name.

 _It must be visiting day, then, when they let mortals descend from the upper lands to take pot shots at you in your bath of sulphur and brimstone._

"Sabrina," Daphne coaxed from her phone.

 _And apparently part of the torment includes letting you keep your cellphone. Figures._

"Sabrina? Sis! I know you're there. Are you okay?"

"How did you get my phone to let you through?" Sabrina wondered aloud.

"Magic, duh. You weren't answering, so I used magic to connect, and now I'm on loudspeaker. What's goin' on?"

"Just let me rot in peace," Sabrina pleaded.

"She's okay, Mom," she heard her sister call out to someone in the background before her voice returned loud and clear. "Sabrina, where are you?"

"In hell."

Daphne laughed, then apologized sheepishly. "It's just the news, sis. Give it a couple days and it'll blow over."

 _Yeah, right._

Daphne tried again. "Seriously, where are you anyway? You were supposed to come pick me up this morning but you never showed. Or called. At first I thought you forgot, but you never forget stuff like that and I was so worried. So then Mom had to come get me. And then we saw the photos on Twitter and all the headlines. And we figured you might be a bit upset and maybe you were hiding although, y'know, Basil swore the Scarlet Hand had found you. So we were all so relieved that it was only that you'd snuck out on a secret date and got caught by the whole world. Haha, so much for the Queen of Sneaks, huh? Seriously, though, it could've been much worse than being linked to a superhot, super eligible celebrity who also happens to be royalty - not that the mortals would know that - _and_ who also happens to be your BFF and childhood sweetheart. But I don't understand - why did you say all that stuff about the future, anyway? You used to be terrified of people finding out. Did you change your mind, then?"

So she wasn't dead after all. And it was too late to imagine it was just a nightmare, either - any hopes of that had effectively been killed by Daphne's remarkable play-by-play. In which she detected a disturbing number of questions not unlike the kind the press had fired at her the night before. Sabrina burrowed deeper into the sheets and said nothing. Maybe if she stayed very still and very quiet, the internet would think she'd died and erase the damned headlines.

Wait - _where_ was she? She sat up, and waited for her head to stop spinning so she could assess her immediate surroundings.

Light grey sheets, slate bedcovers, sunlight filtering in through french windows in a huge room.

Not her room, but she knew this room.

And not her bed, but she knew this bed, too.

Rather intimately, in fact; not twenty-four hours earlier, she'd emptied the contents of her stomach all over it.

She froze.

So . . . where was _he_?

She ducked under the blankets again, suddenly fearful at what she might find, might see.

With her heart bursting, she discovered she was alone.

In his bed.

"Sabrina?" Daphne's voice bleated from under the layers of fabric, and Sabrina dived between them.

"I - I think I'm in . . . uh. . . Faerie," she said at last when she'd gotten the phone to her ear. _Again,_ she didn't bother to add.

"You _think_? Don't you _know_? Are - are you okay, Sabrina?"

"I - I'm not sure," Sabrina breathed. "I'll call you back, okay?"

Without waiting for her sister's reply, she ended the call and sat up a second time, viciously scrubbing the sleep from her eyes before dialing Puck's number.

He answered immediately. "You're up. Great. Get dressed. We're coming to see you in ten minutes."

"Who's _we?_ What's going on? How did I get here?"

 _And what do you mean - get dressed? Why wouldn't I be -_

"Relax. It's just Mustardseed and me. I'll bring you a bagel or something. No wait, you're allergic to our food. No wait again - it doesn't matter; if you faint, I'll just kiss you awake. Very convenient now that I know how you tick."

The phone went dead without so much as a goodbye and she cradled it in bewilderment for the span of a panicked heartbeat before bounding out of the bed to properly look herself over. She _was_ dressed - in yesterday's clothes still, smelling like yesterday's diner and yesterday's humiliation. That, combined with the general discombobulation from one too many sleep cycles, made her suddenly crave a shower. She wandered into the ensuite bathroom and found new clothes laid out for her - a sweater dress and leggings, even underwear. She frowned. _Right size. How did -?_

 _Never mind_ , she counseled herself, _that's the least of your worries_. The princes would be stopping by in ten minutes and she needed to be fully awake to deal with whatever debacle her run-in with the press had caused. Under the steaming water then, to rid herself of the last vestiges of her lethargy; if only her transgressions - and the repercussions thereof - could just as easily be washed away.

* * *

"Hello, darling," Puck announced in saccharine tones when he entered the room minutes later with Mustardseed, "you look lovely. Doesn't she, brother? A vision!"

The younger prince barely succeeded in keeping his expression neutral. "Not overdoing it at all, Puck," he commented, shooting Sabrina a sympathetic look.

"Hardly; according to the internet, we're together now. I believe this is how people who are _together_ greet each other. And speaking of greeting, look what I've brought! A pastry! A token of my devotion and attention to your every need."

"If you don't stop that, I will kill you myself," Mustardseed warned.

Sabrina, silently dying from the horror of this new version of Puck, now sagged and spoke. "Fine. I deserved that. Give me the damage report. After which you're welcome to banish me to some other planet, and tell the blessed internet that I've been kidnapped by aliens."

"Ah! And would these happen to be the same aliens that fathered your child from a previous marriage?" Puck shot back, settling into an armchair by the door. "I'm impressed, love. First time travel, and now aliens. The tabloids certainly don't need any help in making up stories about you."

"Stop it, you two," Mustardseed raised his voice. "You're both acting completely out of character. Puck, let it go. It's nothing compared to some of the whoppers you've said in your time. And Sabrina, I'm sorry you had to deal with the wolves all on your own. I don't like the press much myself, and I feel terrible that you walked straight into a den of them. Puck should've known better -"

"-Oh, blame me, why don't you?"

"I _am_ ," the younger prince said, almost venomously, then softened his tone as he addressed Sabrina, "how are you feeling?"

"Um, disoriented . . . I guess," Sabrina replied, "what happened, anyway? I don't remember anything after . . . actually, the last thing I remember was . . . just the lights and the press, I think . . . and then I woke up here."

"So you don't recall the zombie act?" Puck asked sharply.

"What?"

"You were frozen like a statue, just standing there and staring. Couldn't get a word out of you. We had to cart you back to Faerie and give you some heavy stuff to knock you out. Your heart was going a mile a minute."

Mustardseed broke in more gently, "You were in shock, Sabrina. The healer administered a mild relaxant -"

"-ironic, considering that the last time he was trying to _wake_ you up," Puck snorted.

"-and we let you sleep it off." Mustardseed finished.

A _mild_ relaxant? She could barely discern what planet she was on, and her head felt as if it'd been hit by a wrecking ball. If that was a mild relaxant, she didn't want to think how she'd fare under a bona fide Faerie sedative. And now, on the other side of those lost hours, she had so many questions: her fancy clothes, Puck's bad mood, the slightly disturbing idea that she'd spent the night in his room, in his bed.

In reflex, her eyes flicked to him. The subject of her consternation was staring in bored fascination at his own arm, which he was causing to morph repeatedly into the clawed foreleg of a large lizard and back again. The danish he'd brought sat forlornly on its plate on the side table, a dispensable prop in an awkward drama between two people who no longer made sense to each other - if they once did at all. But Mustardseed was watching her, and he at least seemed interested in intelligent conversation so she pushed all other thoughts aside and returned to their earlier discussion.

"So . . . did I . . . how bad was it? Is . . ."

She let her stuttering trail off into silence, unable to fully voice what she'd been dreading: that in a few seconds, she'd destroyed not only her own credibility but also Faerie's carefully-orchestrated public image.

"There's no real harm done," Mustardseed said surprisingly. "It's just gossip. And not bad gossip, at that. Some might even consider it positive publicity."

"How?" Sabrina stared at him as if he'd grown two heads. "The first and only thing out of my mouth was fluff! I'm working toward a career in _law_ , for crying out loud. I need people to take me seriously. People already don't take me seriously because I'm a woman. But now, I'm also a woman who has only one thing on her mind - to meet a man and marry him. And if that weren't bad enough, I've also stooped to dabbling in science fiction and mysticism in order to achieve it. I came off totally sounding like one of those New Age freaks. Not to mention that I probably set feminism back by several centuries."

She cradled her head in her hands and moaned, "I am ruined. I might as well drop out of school right now."

"Someday, you will be Queen of Faerie," Puck said, uncharacteristically grave, "and that's a heck of a lot more serious position than a lawyer, because you'll speak and your word will _be_ law. So quit bellyaching."

Mustardseed looked sharply at Puck and opened his mouth as if to comment, then seemed to think the better of it. Instead, he turned his back on his brother and toward Sabrina, whose own face was crumpled in hurt.

"Like I said," the younger prince continued, "there hasn't been any backlash, at least not from the Everafter community. Yes, you're right, the general mood _is_ amusement, although not directed at you. There's surprise that the Crown Prince is finally settling down, that the Crown Prince isn't immune to the lure of the female species, that the Trickster might well have met his match, as it were. And even among the humans, all I've heard has been benign. People are curious now, so they're speculating, and reporters have come asking for interviews, and the result is increased interest. Ergo, more publicity. More publicity is exactly our agenda. And frankly, the idea of ancient Fae royalty together with an immortal human - to those who know you're immortal, I mean - by choice, because of love, sends a powerful message of acceptance, true assimilation, a fortuitous union."

Sabrina stared at Mustardseed, aghast at his indomitable optimism, and he smiled at her. "You don't believe me? Give it time. You'll see. Whatever is of substance will remain, everything else will dissipate to nothing. That's the nature of news. By tomorrow, next week, people will have forgotten that you joked about your prophesied wedding, or even time travel. They will, however, remember that you and Puck looked utterly and completely in love with each other."

The door slammed.

Sabrina jumped, and Mustardseed drew in a sharp breath. While he'd been delivering his heartfelt oratory, neither had noticed that Puck had vacated his seat and left the room.

* * *

"What was _that_ about?" Sabrina asked in his wake, genuinely bewildered.

Mustardseed frowned. "He's sulking."

"Yeah, no kidding. But . . . why?"

"Take your pick," the prince replied with barely contained exasperation. "But my guess would be that he thinks you're mocking him."

" _Me_? _Mocking_ him? I barely _spoke_ to him since he entered the room!"

Mustardseed resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the clueless young woman standing before him. "Last night . . . your comment to the press. . . you . . . alluded to your future with him."

Sabrina opened and shut her mouth twice as she tried - and failed - to connect the dots. Mustardseed, seeing her difficulty and knowing his brother's volatile moods and particular sensitivities better than she, continued more gently. "Your idea of . . . no, let me phrase it better . . . he thinks you mentioned your future as a joke."

"A joke, huh?" Sabrina could hear the defensive tone in her own voice, even as she remembered herself blinking into the lights, overwhelmed by all the questions, the demands. "Well, _I_ didn't think it was funny. _I_ wasn't _being_ funny. I was feeling _trapped_ and I said the first thing that came into my head. Which happened to be the truth."

Mustardseed was careful to sound sympathetic. "Unfortunately, the reporters didn't recognize it as such, if their laughter was any indication. Or this morning's headlines, for that matter."

Ah yes, the headlines. In the short time between her shower and the brothers' arrival to the room, she'd finally looked at the newsfeed on her phone and seen some of them - everything from general curiosity about a mystery girl spotted on the arm of one of the city's most eligible bachelors, to the gossip blogs exploding with scandal and supposition. But all of them had conveyed a singular idea: that her comment was humorous, was a clever deflection, was the quip of the year.

"I thought you said there was no backlash, " Sabrina's managed at last. "That it was positive publicity. That there was no harm done."

"No harm done to _our_ cause, yes." Mustardseed bit his lip as he considered how to say his next words. "Sabrina, there were three audiences at the scene. The first, as we'd mentioned earlier, were the Everafters who read the news this morning. Some might have even been in the crowd last night. Being familiar with . . . magical situations, they likely interpreted it correctly - that you indeed saw a vision or prophecy, and were merely stating fact. The second were the mortals, and theirs is the prevalent reaction - unbelieving, skeptical. Which is to be expected; how could they have seen it as anything but a joke?"

"And the third?" Sabrina wasn't sure she was following Mustardseed's argument. The prince sighed, realizing he'd have to spell it out for her. He looked meaningfully at his brother's empty chair, and Sabrina's eyes followed.

"To Puck, it sounded as if you were belittling what's between you. You might not have taken that oracle seriously, but _he_ does. His entire life is hinged on that: growing up, letting go of the child and trickster he's always been, becoming a King."

"I did take it seriously! Besides, he wanted to be a King long before he met me, " Sabrina pointed out. _And he was already pushing all of puberty's buttons long before I leaked that spoiler from the future to him years ago_.

"And stopped _once_ he met you," Mustardseed countered. "Don't you remember? After Oberon's death, the throne was his, but he chose to leave Faerie to return to Ferryport Landing with you."

Sabrina blinked as she assimilated all this. "So you're saying I've hurt his feelings," she concluded.

 _If only it were that simple_ , he thought. "I'm saying he's . . . unsure . . . of where he stands with you."

The irony of Mustardseed's words did not escape Sabrina, and it required phenomenal restraint on her part not to burst into cynical laughter. Did he appreciate the absurdity of their situation? Was she the only one that saw its uncanny resemblance to all the worst plots of all the worst movies ever made?

Mustardseed was watching her carefully. "Do you love him?" The question was baldly asked, but his voice was kind.

Sabrina's gaze snapped to his face and whatever sarcastic comeback she was about to launch vanished. She didn't think she'd ever seen Mustardseed look so earnest, so . . . haunted. _There's a story behind that look_ , she thought, and was suddenly struck by how human he seemed - this prince of Faerie who until that moment had been a paragon of composure and strength.

"I don't think . . . I really know what love is," she answered haltingly, trying for his sake to be honest rather than antagonistic. "I don't think I'm old enough to. I mean . . . I've had a couple boyfriends but they didn't last. I guess that means I didn't love them, right? Or I didn't love them enough . . . maybe?"

Mustardseed remained silent, giving her his full attention as he listened, and his silence compelled her to continue. She chuckled self-consciously as she admitted, "Daphne's convinced it's because I actually love Puck that I ended things with the others. But I - how do you love someone who's never around? Whom you don't think you know anymore because he . . because _we've_ both changed?"

"Are you asking me, or is that rhetorical?" Mustardseed's lips turned up slightly.

Sabrina drew her lip between her teeth as she hesitated for half a second before asking what she'd always wondered about him, "Have _you_ ever loved someone?"

Mustardseed's smile widened, but there was a strange wistfulness in it. "Yes."

"And did sh- they love you back?" Her voice was a whisper, her gaze burning into his face.

While his drifted to the window as he sighed and answered a second time, "Yes."

 _But -?_ Sabrina wanted to prompt him for more. _What happened? Was there a happy ending?_ But she couldn't bring herself to ask and Mustardseed did not elaborate, instead letting his smile slip back into place as he tipped his head to her.

"Do you know what all the best love stories have in common?" He asked, and without waiting for her response, answered, "A twist."

With that cryptic parting shot, and with far more grace than had his brother, he, too, left the room.

* * *

Sabrina eventually returned Daphne's call. Her sister answered immediately, and Sabrina wondered if she'd been holding her phone in her hand, waiting for it to ring.

"Hey, Daph, I'm okay," Sabrina said without waiting to be asked. "I'm in Faerie and it's a long story and I don't really want to go into it now but I'm leaving in a little while."

"Are you still coming to Granny's for Christmas?"

"I guess."

"Is Puck coming?"

"No. . . was he supposed to?"

Daphne made a noise of outrage. " _Make_ him. You're there, aren't you? Tell him everyone misses him. We haven't seen him in years. And the mags and billboards don't count."

"Ah . . . well . . ." Sabrina hedged. It was a good idea, actually, but she didn't know if they were even on talking terms at the moment, let alone inviting-terms.

"So," Daphne continued, misunderstanding Sabrina's hesitation, "are you and Puck . . . real-dating or fake-dating or what now?"

Sabrina snorted. "I don't know what we are, Daph."

"That's messed up. Did you talk about it?"

"Uh . . . no."

From the other end came a reprisal of exasperated and impatient sounds. "Then talk!"

Sabrina was about to put forth another argument about it 'being complicated' when she suddenly realized she was tired of everything, and ready to move on. "Okay," she announced, resolved. "You know what? I will. I'll get him to agree to ride with me and . . . we can talk in the car."

Daphne whistled. "Hardcore! You're gonna trap him in the car so he can't escape!"

"Um, I never thought of it that way," Sabrina faltered, but Daphne was sniggering.

"Oh boy, he's gonna love it!"

"I thought you wanted this!" Sabrina began to second-guess herself.

"Shouldn't matter what I want, sis. But go for it. Either you'll rip each other to shreds and we'll have to come scrape you off the highway, or you'll turn up at the house BFFs and making love eyes at each other. But, hey, at least you'll be getting somewhere. Oh, and are you gonna stop by your apartment to pack first? Because if so, can you bring Chameleon with you? You know, that board game you got for your birthday? I wanna play it with everyone."

 _Her apartment._

 _Celine._

Sabrina groaned. How could she have forgotten that she'd have to return to the real world soon enough? The press had wanted a story and she'd given them a tale as tall as they came. Which, if Mustardseed's reassurance were grounded, would safely be old news to everyone in a matter of days.

Everyone but her friends, that is. What would she tell them? It would be a whole new can of worms and then some.

First, though, she'd have to deal with Puck.

* * *

She found him with his men.

Having mostly spent time within the confines of his palace (which she likened more to a sprawling mansion than a medieval castle), it was easy for Sabrina to forget that there were gardens and fields outside its walls. It was in one of these pleasant green pastures that she found Puck putting his soldiers through some kind of fighting drill. Even though the group paid her no notice, she felt very self-conscious of her approach, striding conspicuously over the field. Puck himself was facing off against one of his men, blocking blows in almost choreographed sequence. In spite of the chill in the air, the soldiers wore only sleeveless vests and rugged pants, and their boots crunched the snow underfoot.

"Um, sorry to interrupt," Sabrina began when she drew within earshot, frowning when she noticed that Puck didn't even acknowledge her presence.

"I'm busy," he said without flagging his pace, his eyes on his sparring partner.

"Okay. Anyway, I just came to say that I'm heading out."

There was no response.

"I'm going to Granny's. You know - in Ferryport."

"I'm well aware of where she lives."

 _Well, yippee,_ she thought, _he's still talking to me._

"So . . . you wanna come?" Sabrina pressed her advantage.

A tiny frown appeared between Puck's eyes and he must have hesitated a second too long because his opponent's fist swung undeflected into the side of his head. Puck winced as the other solider paused to offer apologies.

"Did you hear me saying you could stop, Ealdan?" Puck barked out, then shook his head violently, as if to shrug off the effects of the blow. "Proceed!"

"Sire," Ealdan replied, sounding concerned, "perhaps you and the lady -"

"I'm not -" Sabrina tried to clarify, at the same time that Puck countered, "Are you disobeying a direct order?"

The soldier straightened, his face stoic. "Sire, I -"

"Puck," Sabrina interrupted, not bothering to grace him with a fancy title before his soldiers, "I'm gonna get out of your way now. But I just wanted to say goodbye and thank you for everything and if you . . . that I thought everyone at home would've liked to see you for Christmas. It's been some years and well, they . . . we all miss you. And I was gonna drive, so I thought uh. . . we could ride together and um . . talk. . . I mean, if you want."

Ealdan suddenly grinned, but just as quickly resumed his earlier look of grim determination. Puck glared at him, his own expression like a thunderstorm.

In the tense silence following, Sabrina shifted on her feet. And waited.

"So . . . I'll see you around, then. Uh. . . Merry Christmas, I guess." She nodded awkwardly at Ealdan and turned to go.

Puck didn't call her back, but as she walked away she was keenly aware that it was still quiet behind her. Two strides further, she heard Puck's voice ring out in annoyance, "Did I tell you lot to take five? Show's over! Get back to work, slackers!"

* * *

"Well, you tried," Mustardseed conceded. They were once more in Puck's room, standing by the window as Sabrina packed. She'd just finished zipping up her backpack when she noticed, on the nightstand, the stack of her clothes which had somehow been retrieved, washed, dried and neatly folded in the short time she'd been away from the room.

"He'll eventually come round," the prince assured her, "and please convey my greetings to your family at the very least. It would be good to meet with them sometime in the very near future. Is your grandmother still well?"

"Yes," Sabrina replied, "she's older, a bit more frail, but still cooks up a storm and last I heard, had been to Europe to visit several influential Everafter families for the sake of. . . goodwill or something. Seems goodwill's trending, huh? Um, I never got round to asking about this dress, by the way," she indicated the soft wool garment she was wearing. "Did you buy it? Or Puck? My clothes are ready, so I can give it back now. Thanks, incidentally. It's really lovely."

Mustardseed put out a hand to stop her. "It was sent by our image consultant late last night. When we first embarked on this . . . outreach program, we were unfamiliar with trends and appropriate looks and such, so Mother hired him to style us in a befitting manner. Apparently, he saw the footage of the Rockefeller interview last night and decided to style you as well. You know, now that everyone believes you're with Puck. Er, not that there's anything wrong with what you were wearing. You see, my mother personally threatened him with grievous bodily harm if he so much as made a slip in his judgement or his attention to our needs in general, and he's been bordering on paranoid ever since. Although I must say that his recent recommendations have really been quite tasteful. Sometimes a bit of positive motivation does wonders, doesn't it? Anyway, keep the dress. It suits you. Consider it a Christmas gift from our family."

"But it's several thousand dollars!" Sabrina exclaimed, not caring that she sounded totally unsophisticated by that admission. "I don't wear designer stuff but I've heard of that label and it's like . . this dress costs more than what some people make in a whole year!"

"Welcome to the lifestyle of the rich, famous and wasteful," Mustardseed smiled apologetically. "But we were -"

The door flew open and Puck marched in.

"Brother," Mustardseed calmly acknowledged him, as if being interrupted mid-conversation by people who failed to knock were a common occurrence (Sabrina suspected it was). Puck grunted and headed to the bathroom, shedding layers of his training gear on the floor as he went.

"Uh, what are you doing here?" Sabrina found her voice some seconds later.

"It's _my_ bedroom, isn't it?" Puck tossed back, and Sabrina looked away quickly when she saw that he'd undressed to his waist and had begun fiddling with the buttons of his fly. She squeezed her eyes shut until she heard the bathroom door slam.

"It's safe to look now," Mustardseed called out, and Sabrina heard amusement in his tone. She knew her face was burning.

Suddenly, the bathroom door opened once more, and Puck's face peered out. Sabrina slammed her eyes shut and squeaked. This time, she distinctly heard Mustardseed snigger. Then, Puck's voice sailed across the room.

"I've decided to pay the Old Lady a visit after all. And besides, driving in this blizzard is a recipe for disaster. You'd probably need someone to dig you out of a ditch before you're even halfway there. Gimme fifteen minutes and I'll be ready to go."

"Oh," Mustardseed returned, completely straight-faced. "I was not aware that you'd made traveling plans. I believe we have a photoshoot this weekend. Very significant collaboration with not one but three companies that have intentions to -"

"I'm the crown prince of this place. And _I_ say I'm spending this weekend with some old friends so the press can go take a hike. If we're that important to them, they can get back in line and wait their turn. And this reminds me: I'm sick of letting the Northern Court tell us whether we can put me on the throne or not. It's my throne and my kingdom, and I'm going to sit on it, and if they've got a problem with it, they can start their war. I'm more than happy to blow their kingdom sky-high. When I get back from the Grimms, I'm making the announcement."

"To whom?" Mustardseed asked in surprise.

"Everyone. I'll tweet that I'm officially inheriting the family business from my father and am now the head honcho."

Sabrina blinked. "Uh, 'head honcho' is hardly an official term. But King does sound a bit theatrical in this day and age. Better to call yourself the CEO. It's more in keeping with the times."

Mustardseed exchanged a glance with Sabrina before saying, "Very well, then. I will make arrangements for a coronation ceremony."

"Make sure there are chips at the reception," Puck added. "Lots of 'em."

The door slammed shut once more, leaving Sabrina blinking incredulously at Mustardseed.

"Well," he said at last, and grinned unexpectedly. "And here I'd predicted that he'd leave Faerie about an hour after you, rationalizing loudly about the Grimm family being starved of his glorious company. _This_ is even better. Some of your influence must be rubbing off on him."

"You _knew_ he'd say yes?"

"Of course. It's as clear as day how he feels about you. But the coronation . . . now, _that_ I didn't see coming. Nicely done, Ms Grimm. I've been waiting for this day for a long time. We'll make a King of my brother yet."

"But . . . I thought you wanted to not . . . antagonize your enemies?"

"I wanted Puck to step up and act like the King he is," Mustardseed clarified, "which is not at all the same as waiting to be handed the throne on a silver platter as he'd bemoaned for as long as I can remember. Not to mention playing soldiers and threatening invasions in that passive-aggressive way of his."

"But what about your PR thing? And goodwill and all that? What if war really breaks out?"

"First," Mustardseed counted off his fingers, "I don't believe there will be a war. But if it does come to that, we'll be ready, and it will be worth it. We're long overdue, anyway, for a contest against our crown. Second, my enthusiasm for peaceful relations between the courts does not belie my willingness to defend my people with force if needed. The Northern Court is brutal, or at least they were. But so were we and now look at us. Who's to say they haven't changed, too?"

"Does Puck believe that, too?"

"If he didn't, he would never had stayed with your family after Oberon's death. Those years he spent in exile changed him. For the better, I must assume. And now, we might finally see the King he was meant to be. In no small part thanks to you."

He offered his palm - a little hesitantly, as if he weren't used to the action - and Sabrina high-fived him.

"He does need a little push from time to time, doesn't he?" Sabrina remarked, equally amused now that the shock had worn off.

"Yes, and sometimes it's most effective coming from someone whose opinion he actually cares about, whatever he may say to the contrary."

The bathroom door cracked open and steam billowed into the room.

Sabrina jumped and shrieked, "Stop doing that!"

"I can hear every word you're saying, you know." Puck emerged from the fog with a towel around his waist. "And if you two are done turning me into a sap, you might wanna get out so I can get dressed. Unless Grimm wants to stay for the show?"

He winked at her and Sabrina flushed as she grabbed her backpack and stack of clothes and marched resolutely out of the room, muttering something about getting a car ready for an eight-hour drive.

Mustardseed followed her out. "Eight hours in a car together," he mused, shaking his head, "heaven help us all."

* * *

 **A/N: Happy weekend, friends! So, I know I started this story from two random, ridiculous prompts (terms of endearment inspired by desserts and tailoring good clothes - see A/N in Chapter 3) but as I'm writing it, I'm thinking about pacing and themes. Usually, I finish a story and then I read it back over before even posting a single chapter, so I get a feel of the pacing and themes, and edit it as a whole. This story, however, is fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants: I'm posting bits as I write them and I won't have a good sense of the pacing till it's all over. I feel very reckless. It's also a bit of an adventure to put out sections of plot and character development that I can't change later. Writing this way is strange for me, but it's yet another way to practice the art. It's something new I'm learning, but not sure yet if I'm liking. Time will tell.**

 **Can I talk about about themes for a little bit? Typically, when I plan or begin a story, I think I'm writing a story about A. Then halfway through, I realize the story is really about B. Themes are sneaky that way. This story, for instance, started out being about defining the boundaries of friendship. Now it's about seizing the day while being afraid and being unaware of that fear.**

 **How that fear-into-risk looks for the different characters - those are the "stories other people need to hear", even though the tellers may not want to tell them yet - or ever. For Puck, it's about his kingship, and earning the right to it that goes beyond his position as the next-in-line. For Sabrina, it's about not running away from things she needs to face up to. And Mustardseed has a story, too, as Sabrina suspects. Now, they're characters, and superhumans at that, so their backstories, fun though they may be to read about, will likely have little in common with us lowly mortals. Or maybe the themes that run through this tale have a way of leveling the playing field, so that, maybe, some of their stories are ours, too. That is my hope as I write, because while most of us will never be models, royalty, fly, or go to law school, some of us may fall in love and have aspirations and be embroiled in complicated friendships. And who among us hasn't been afraid?**

 **Onto some general responses to comments now: thank you all for leaving me all these notes and PMs, and for following and favoriting. Life's gotten busy this year so I've been tardy with PM replies, but I will get to them. I've loved talking with you! To the guest who asked if this story was set in 2018, I honestly have no idea. I suppose yes, since it is the age of social media and fake news and whatnot, but P and S are twenty-one (ish) so I'd have to do the Math to say for sure what year that makes it.**

 **TTFN ~qas**


	7. Chapter 7

Even the longest journey, as the saying goes, begins with a single step.

Or - in their case - a heated disagreement over transportation. Specifically, whose vehicle to take.

Sabrina's original plan had been to rent a car, which was what all less-than-filthy-rich New Yorkers did whenever they wished to leave the city to visit family out in the boondocks.

Puck had very generously offered his own car, which cost nothing to use and which was currently sitting in a garage in some uninteresting part of town anyway, completely at his disposal.

Imagining it to be some luridly-embellished hot rod, Sabrina had declined, arguing that it would undoubtedly draw attention to themselves, and did he really need more of that?

Puck had scoffed and sidetracked into an exposition of his natural magnetism as a celebrity and all-round astounding person which rendered superfluous any accessory, vehicular or otherwise (his actual words were more along the lines of "Well, excuse me, I don't need to sit in a metal can to turn all eyes to me!") before pointing out that it had great gas mileage.

Not that the cost of fuel would make even a dent in the overflowing treasures of the King of Faerie, he'd added as an afterthought.

Tuning out everything but the bit about "costing nothing", Sabrina had had visions of all the marvelous things she'd be able to buy with the two hundred dollars she'd be saving by foregoing the rental for Puck's offer. Thus tempted, she'd weakened and said OK Fine but _she'd_ drive, thank you very much, as she didn't trust the Trickster King not to break the sound barrier, if her previous experiences of flying with him were anything to go by. Besides, she'd rationalized primly, she really didn't care to spend the holidays in the jail cell of some county sheriff's outpost.

Outraged, Puck had refused to relent, countering that it was _his_ car, and (very unwisely) adding something about "women drivers" which had earned him an elbow in the ribs and some equally caustic invective in return.

And on it went. By the time they arrived at the garage (via subway, as it was still too cold to fly), Sabrina was ready to slug him in the face. In mutinous silence, they marched up the ramp, located his parking space, and she took her first look at Puck's infamous car.

And for a few seconds, simply stared in disbelief.

"A _Honda Accord_?" She managed at last.

"Yep."

"You . . . drive a Japanese . . . family sedan."

"Hey! Lots of hip, single people drive Hondas! It's not like it's a minivan!"

"Fair point. It's . . . "

"What?"

"I guess I was expecting . . . something else."

"Something else. Like what - a pickup truck? Semi?"

"No. Um. Y' know . . . Porsche. Ferrari. Corvette. . . something along those lines."

Puck sneered. "Ah. The stereotypical, overpriced fast car. I sense disappointment."

"No . . . I just -"

"I'll have you know that this baby is extremely zippy. Not that there are many opportunities to be zippy in New York City's crazy traffic."

"Did you really . . . _choose_ this?" Sabrina's gaze shifted repeatedly between the car and Puck as she tried to wrap her mind around what she was seeing. There had to be another explanation. Maybe the car was sponsored. Or one of those free samples famous people got in exchange for a "fair and honest review".

Puck frowned as he defended himself, "Hey, technically, I don't _need_ a car; I can fly. And if I wanted to get around on the ground, I'd pick a bike over a car any day and twice on Sunday. Unfortunately, bikes aren't exactly subtle, so on the odd occasion that I need to travel incognito in the city, I've got a box on wheels. We all do."

" _We_?"

"Mustardseed has a Toyota. Mother's is a Hyundai. Nothing flashy, something to blend in with the other common cars on the street. It worked out real well way back in the day when we were all about _not_ making a statement. When we were hiding, I mean. Of course that sorta fell into the dungpile now that our faces are all over the billboards. That image consultant Mother hired, for instance, was horrified when he found out that she drives a Korean compact. He tried to get us all contracts with some of those bourgeois European motor companies but she'd have none of it."

Sabrina was only half-listening, her mind fixated on the image of Mustardseed in a short sleeved polo shirt and bermudas, steering a no-nonsense Corolla. No, she corrected herself - not a Corolla - a Camry or a Lexus. Yes, quite possibly a Lexus; if he couldn't be riding in the back of a limo decked out with state flags, she could totally see the prince of Faerie behind the be-leathered wheel of a sleek luxury car, Japanese or otherwise.

 _Puck_ , on the other hand . . . all she could envision was him sitting on the _roof_ of a car. _Any_ car, but most likely the flashy kind. The kind that was _way_ over on the absolute other end of the automotive spectrum from the specimen in front of her right then.

Had Puck been aware of her unflattering analysis of his choice of wheels, they'd have likely resumed their argument exactly where they'd laid off earlier and continued all through the new year but as it was, he simply unlocked the passenger door and waved Sabrina in. Inside, she ran her hand over the smooth interior and considered that she'd once again pegged him wrongly, that it was yet another thing about him she apparently knew nothing about. Shaking off the thought, she waved her phone at him with, "Whatever. I'd better text my roommate to say I'm coming to pick up some clothes, and that I'm bringing a friend."

Puck immediately took offense that he'd once more been friendzoned, then abruptly changed the subject by smugly pointing out the gear stick between the front seats.

"Stick shift! Check it out, with all that power, she handles like a beast. First off the lights every time; zero to eighty in 2.7 seconds flat. So strap yerself in, woman," his eyes glinted as he checked the mirrors, "and let's take her out."

Sabrina rolled her eyes and deleted what she'd typed, amending it to "I'm bringing a psychopath that I've been forced to spend the weekend with, so please don't ask questions and have the baseball bat ready and I'll see you in half an hour."

She was still finishing her text when she felt her spine sucked into the leather seat as the Honda roared down the parking ramp and exploded into the pale sunshine.

* * *

When she'd called him a psychopath, Celine hadn't in a million years imagined that Sabrina had meant _him_.

To be fair, she hadn't imagined anyone, really, that her roommate might have considered even a minor annoyance, let alone dangerous - or insane. During the two years she'd shared Sabrina's apartment and (what she'd imagined was) mundane college life, she'd never witnessed her upset by anyone. Not prejudiced professors, not overachieving classmates, not even boys who were too forward in their attempts to court her. No, it was as if either Sabrina Grimm was born unflappable or else, in some past life, she'd experienced the entire gamut of bad attitudes and in-your-face social trauma and was no longer surprised by what - and who - life might throw at her.

So when she'd mentioned a psychopath, Celine had honestly thought her friend was a victim in a hostage situation. She'd instantly panicked, wondering if she should call 911, or hide under the bed, or just run out of the apartment and pretend she'd never received the text at all.

She'd chosen to stay put - once her sensibilities kicked in, along with the possibility that it might be a joke, or a typo. Spell checkers had been known to produce some very bizarre misunderstandings, and perhaps this one was just another, a mistake that they could both giggle over later.

But just in case, she'd taken Sabrina's message at face worth and hefted the baseball bat from where it rested against the bookshelves.

And then the key turned in the lock and Sabrina slouched in, followed by this absolute _angel_ of a boy.

Jaw dragging on the polyester carpet, Celine discreetly set the baseball bat back down (and, had she not hurriedly righted it two seconds later, would've sent it clattering embarrassingly to the floor, all because she hadn't taken her eyes off him since he'd entered her field of vision, not for one instant, and certainly not long enough to put anything anywhere that wasn't completely stupid).

When she eventually did drag her gaze toward Sabrina, it occurred to her that her roommate looked exhausted - and supremely uncomfortable.

Celine's thoughts went straight into the gutter.

"Um, this is. . . Robin," Sabrina mumbled resentfully once the two girls had made eye contact.

Like he needed the introduction. Only corpses and aliens wouldn't recognize that face. Maybe not even aliens - Celine was prepared to bet her entire student loan that the denizens of other worlds were already planning pilgrimages to Earth just to behold perfection in the flesh.

"Hey," Robin said, extending his hand.

Which Celine received with the same reverence as if it had been a newborn baby. Beside her, she heard Sabrina sigh.

"Celine," her roommate said, rather loudly.

Celine continued to stand there with a beatific look on her face.

"Celine," Sabrina called again, this time from right next to her ear and at last Celine snapped to.

"Yeah?"

"Sorry for barging in like this. I'll just get my stuff and we'll leave, okay? Um, aren't you heading home for Christmas, too?" Reassured that her roommate hadn't fallen into a waking coma, Sabrina disappeared into her bedroom with her words trailing behind her, leaving Celine and Puck in the tiny shared living room.

"Um, yeah, yeah," Celine stuttered, mortified that she hadn't even been able to form a coherent thought in front of this boy. Or man. Or celestial being or whatever he was. Later, she might kick herself for being such a _girl_ but in that moment, she couldn't honestly dismiss the possibility that she'd somehow died and been let into paradise by the back door. She'd seen the photos and headlines all over social media, of course and in true girlfriend solidarity had called Sabrina the night before to fake-begrudge her on her good fortune. After all, Celine had lived in New York City all her life and had never seen anyone famous, ever, but here was her roommate (who was practically a nun), sharing press exposure with an actual celebrity she'd ostensibly run into, who also happened to be an uncommonly delectable morsel, not to mention auspiciously eligible. She was going to stay up all night if that's what it took, she vowed, and wait for Sabrina to get home so she could totally grill her. But Sabrina hadn't answered her phone, so Celine had simply added her own comment to the long list of other similar ones on that twitter post: WTG, Bri! #luckyduck #girlenvy #iwantdeets.

And now, this.

Sabrina had brought him _home_. Could fate be any more cruel?

Speaking of home, the glorious boy was looking around the apartment - _her_ apartment! - in bored disinterest.

"Uh, so . . .did you guys meet at the party?" She attempted at last, less out of polite conversation than insatiable curiosity. _High five, Celine -_ _you managed a complete sentence without swallowing your own tongue_.

Robin whirled round and blinked at her in confusion before understanding dawned. "Yeah, she surprised me. I wasn't expecting her - she's always been sneaky that way - but once she turned up, it was disaster and mayhem, as usual. Hugely entertaining, in other words."

 _Wait . . ._

"It was _your_ party?" Celine gawked.

"There was someone else's party more important?"

Sabrina emerged from her bedroom just as Celine burst out, "You knew each other before?"

Robin laughed and at the sound, Celine's eyelids fluttered weakly.

"Since we were kids," he answered. "She didn't say anything about me?"

Celine was about to choke out something when Sabrina interrupted with a terse and very final, "No."

"No posters of me on her wall?" Robin pressed almost defiantly.

"Puck," she heard Sabrina call him as she blatantly changed the subject, "there's soda in the fridge if you want some. I'll just be a minute, okay?"

Robin (Puck?) shot Sabrina a bemused look, then shrugged. "Awesome. I'm parched," he announced as he opened the refrigerator and stuck his head inside, "while also needing the bathroom really bad. I can't decide which to do first. Alth - whoa. Ew." He pulled his head out and grimaced. "Okay, Grimm? Diet Coke is _not_ soda. Do you know why Diet Coke is not soda? Because it's puke. C'mon! Is that all you got? Where's the real stuff?"

"It's free, so shut up and be grateful," Sabrina called back as she returned to her bedroom.

"I'd sooner stick my head in your toilet and chug," he shut the fridge door and followed her. "Since, you know, I'm gonna be using it anyway."

Their voices died off as (Celine presumed) Robin ensconced himself in Sabrina's bathroom while she packed. They'd left the bedroom door open, so Celine ventured closer, eyes still wide as dinner plates. Sabrina, beside her bed upon which were an overnight bag and untidy piles of clothes, glanced up and with a tilt of her head beckoned her friend in.

She looked resigned, Celine decided. Something was definitely afoot and Sabrina wasn't exactly doing a stellar job of hiding it.

" _That's_ Cupcake Boy?" Celine got right to the point.

"Yeah. Piece of work, isn't he?"

That wasn't Celine's first impression at all, no; hers was more along the lines of OhMyOvaries. But then Celine was every other girl in the city for whom even a chance meeting with Mr Moonlight and Stardust was a torrid fantasy at best, while Sabrina Grimm was on pet-name basis with this delicious creature. And not just terms of endearment either - insults, constant bickering and a whopping dose of simmering hostility. These were two people clearly comfortable in each other's personal space. Or being driven half mad with unresolved tension.

Yes, Celine saw through them, clear as day.

"And that's why you don't have any photos? Because you can't stand him?" She goaded Sabrina from where she stood leaning against the door frame.

"Mm-hm." Sabrina threw two pairs of jeans into her overnight bag.

"And also because he wasn't _ever_ around?"

"Yep."

"While being on the pages of _every single_ fashion publication, hot as apple pie out of the oven and just as tasty?"

Sabrina gagged in reflex before frowning at the implication in Celine's tone. "And it's true -" she defended herself, absently waving the shirt in her hand, " - the only photos I have of him are the same ones every other person has - in a magazine."

"Huh." Celine crossed her arms. "What's going on, Bri?"

"Celine, look - I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier, but it's -"

"-complicated, I know. That's the easy out, Bri. I say that all the time, too, to whichever guy I don't wanna take the time to explain the real reason to for why I'm dumping him. But I'm not a guy. I'm your _friend_. I get that you wanted to keep him under wraps. Hell, if I had a hottie like that in my purse, I'd put a lock on it, too. But here's the thing: if you'd come back here with him all smiling and cloudnine and afterglowy, I'd be the first to cheer. But you're exhausted, snappy and honestly, girl, you look like death. So this is me being worried for you. What's. Going. On."

Sabrina froze where she stood with her hands full of underwear. Then she took a deep breath, cast a quick look at the bathroom door, tossed the lingerie into her bag and dragged Celine back out into the living room. Where she opened her mouth to speak, frowned and closed it again, and pulled her all the way out into the hallway, shutting their apartment door behind them.

"He has really good hearing," she explained in response to Celine's quizzical stare. "Like _unnaturally_ good. I'm not even sure we're safe here."

"Sabrina," Celine gripped her arms, her face stone, "Robin - is he hurting you?"

Sabrina laughed. It burst out of her in a crude howl, startling Celine, who dropped her hands and took a step back, startled. Sabrina continued to guffaw, less because it was funny and more because with each breath, she felt the stress of the last twenty-four hours lift and she wanted nothing more in that moment than for it to continue lifting, disappearing into the ether of all things frivolous and harmless. Remembering the pranks and insults he'd leveled at her from the first day they'd met, she bent over with one hand on the wall and snorted at the irony, letting it all out in fits, until she found herself sitting up against that same wall, heaving with her head in her hands, her eyes wet from tears that had begun in mirth but which had continued to stream down her face even after her last chuckles had died away.

 _Is he hurting me?_ Sabrina repeated inwardly. _Well, shall we count the ways?_

She turned to Celine, who was watching her, waiting, her face a picture of real fear and utter confusion. Like she'd been dunked in ice cold water, Sabrina instantly sobered.

 _But not in the way you mean. Never that way._

And she took a deep breath before saying seriously, "No. He's never hurt me. Ever. The truth is he'd rather die than let anything happen to me. Since we were kids, all he's ever done was protect me - and rubbed it in my face after. Sorry for laughing at you, Celine. It just really _is_ . . . complicated. And yes, I kept him a secret, but it was all true, what I told you. I've known him since I was eleven, and everyone was always trying to get us together -"

"At _eleven_?" Celine's eyebrows were sky-high, but the tension had left her body at Sabrina's reassuring words.

"I know, right?" Sabrina shook her head. "Well, everyone except my dad, actually. Turns out he was the sensible one in our family."

"So okay, then you did what any self-respecting girl would do - ran right into his arms because, well, _look_ at him!"

Sabrina shoved her roommate, who cackled in turn and then had a coughing fit for good measure.

"What?" Celine wheezed when she'd recovered. "Don't tell me you've never kissed him. Or at least wanted to. _I_ would. Repeatedly."

"Stop it, Celine. I've seen you kiss a tree and two random strangers, which, by the way, is harassment."

"Oh hush. _They_ didn't object, if I remember."

"Doesn't make it okay."

"Don't go all lawyer on me, miss I'm-Dating-A-Demigod."

"We're not dating."

Celine chuckled. "Not according to said demigod. Whose arm last night, might I remind you, was around _your_ waist when he told the entire world that he was spoken for. Which sounds about right, now that I know the context for those love notes and cute presents you two've been sending each other from all over the world."

"They're not cute," Sabrina protested for the umpteenth time. "They're offensive."

"They're foreplay, is what they are. You never miss each other's birthdays. And just yesterday, you braved a freaking East Coast blizzard to bring him a cupcake. A cupcake! And some handmade whatchamacallit! Most friends I know who're in relationships don't come anywhere close to that level of devotion."

Sabrina huffed in frustration. "Look," she almost pleaded, "that whole press thing was a disaster, okay? I didn't know what I was saying, and he . . . he just played along to save my face. We're not dating. We never have. And now, we're just trying to figure out how to salvage the whole thing."

"What whole thing?"

"How do I even begin to -" Sabrina paused and scrunched her hair, vexed. "Okay. Short version: we weren't even teenagers when my family moved back to the city and he went off to see the world. Literally. Like, he and my uncle have been globetrotting on and off for the past . . . oh, almost a decade. The thing is, when we said goodbye, we had . . . like an understanding, I guess. We knew we were sorta important to each other, but that's where we left it. No expectations, you know?"

"And now you're finding that maybe there _are_ expectations after all?"

"I guess. I don't know."

"Well, that would explain why you weren't into dating anyone seriously."

"I did date people! In high school, anyway. Before you even knew me."

"But no one in the last couple years since?"

"That doesn't mean anything. I'm in college now. I'm focusing on school work in general and . . . and not flunking specifically."

Celine snorted. "You got that right. No parties, no booze, no fun. It's almost like you're punishing yourself, Bri. Live a little, girl. Kiss the guy. Do more than kiss the guy. Or if you don't want to kiss him, kiss some other guy. I mean, even people in weird arranged future marriages can still date other guys meanwhile. Nothing's set in stone till you sign those papers, right?"

Sabrina successfully refrained from rolling her eyes. If only Celine knew how close she was to the real truth.

When her friend remained silent, Celine peered at her. "So . . . not dating now. Yet. But you never answered my question. You _have_ kissed him, right? Please say you have kissed him. It's my one desperate, vicarious chance at happiness with someone so freaking sublime."

Fifteen-year-old Sabrina Grimm would've blushed and said something like, "Kiss that putrid fleabag? No way!" Twenty-year-old Sabrina Grimm, wiser after after several rounds of romantic disillusionment, remained silent.

"And did. He. Kiss. Back." Celine went for the kill.

"Well, _he_ started it," Sabrina defended herself, and marveled that she didn't sound quite as bitter as she thought she might've.

"Ah," Celine leaned back against the wall in satisfaction beside her friend, "expectations after all." Which, Celine digested, would explain her roommate's haggard look and foul disposition at the prospect of spending time with this boy whom just days earlier she'd been excited about seeing again. She'd seen that same look in the mirror each time she'd had to lecture common sense into herself while in the throes of some romantic conundrum. Sabrina could do with some of that wisdom, she resolved.

"Why not give it a shot, Bri? Clearly, platonic is not working out, so maybe you guys should just go for it." Celine was gentle now, all teasing gone. "See where it takes you. You could even say it's for the camera. Celebrities do it all the time. Helps with publicity, and you get to try it out to see how it feels. Win-win."

Sabrina winced as if she'd been kicked. She slapped her hands over her face and groaned. "I've been asking myself the same question - why not just play along for a while. But . . . I can't."

"Because . . .?"

"It just . . . It feels _wrong_."

"You like him and obviously he likes you back, so what's wrong about that?"

Sabrina was quiet for a long time, after which she turned to look at her roommate.

"Because," she admitted, "it feels . . . _mean_. It's not just a game, Celine. And I couldn't do that to him."

Celine's eyes were huge in dawning realization. "Girl, you've got it so bad for him and you don't even know it."

"I'm not - ! Ugh. I don't - I don't know anything anymore." Sabrina moaned toward the ceiling, and Celine's gaze softened with renewed sympathy.

"So what now? You gonna be okay?" She put a hand on Sabrina's shoulder.

"I hope so. We're heading back to Ferryport, for Christmas."

"You're taking him to meet your _parents_?"

"Celine, we grew up together, remember? It's as much his home as mine."

"Oh right. Girl, that's honestly messed up. It's like dating . . . your brother."

Sabrina shuddered. "Not at all like it. But yes, it _is_ messed up."

Both girls fell into silence as they stared at the pastel wallpaper adorning the hallway. Then Sabrina pushed herself up and stood. "Okay. I'm done moping. I'm getting my dang act together now. I've survived a whole _year_ with Prof Evilpants; surely I can last a car ride without scratching my eyes out - or _his_."

"Because you really don't want to even _look_ at the cold and steely eyes of Prof Evilpants, let alone scratch them."

"You _know_ I wasn't talking about the _Prof's_ eyes, you idiot." Sabrina bumped Celine's shoulder, her lips twitching. It felt good to laugh again. She looked beseechingly at her friend, suddenly uncertain. "Wish me luck?"

Dutifully, Celine did. But how exactly she meant for her roommate to get lucky, she didn't say.

* * *

In Sabrina's room, Puck paused. He'd just exited the bathroom and beheld a pile of the most _interesting_ garments on her bed. Seeing that the girl herself had apparently skedaddled mid-pack, he was just about to holler for her so he could make an inappropriate comment to embarrass her, when he heard voices.

Then he heard his name, and recognized the voice that spoke it. Sabrina and her roommate, apparently, were talking about _him_.

Intrigued, he listened. It wasn't really eavesdropping if they sounded as if they were right next to him, he rationalized; he had magical hearing, after all. He supposed he _could_ re-enter the bathroom and shut the door. It might muffle the voices enough so that he'd have to actually concentrate to follow the conversation. Or he _could_ stay right where he was and accidentally pick up a secret confession or two. Surely it wouldn't be anything he hadn't heard Sabrina gush before. _If_ she gushed.

 _Did_ she gush? Well, she was female, and every other female who'd ever laid eyes on him certainly had.

Besides, he knew for a fact that they'd eventually get married, so she must either already be a gusher (albeit in secret), or else become one at some point in the very near future.

He suspected the former.

And so he kept listening, then smirked.

 _Well, well, I was right_ , he decided with satisfaction as he heard her stolidly defending his honor in the face of Celine's accusations. _I'm going to rub this one in your face the next time you mock someone else for gushing. Ha!_

Then he heard Celine dare her to fake-date him, and he stilled, eagerly anticipating her answer.

 _I can't. It feels wrong._

Wait . . . what?

Something crashed inside him at her words, like a wrecking ball had had a field day with his heart. Suddenly weak-kneed, he exhaled, huffing loudly as if to drown out the rest of the conversation. He didn't even care to wait for Celine's response - he'd heard more than enough - and feeling like he were about to throw up, he marched back into the bathroom, slammed the door shut and, for good measure, flushed the toilet.

* * *

Mustardseed collapsed into his armchair and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. He might be immortal and magical but neither granted him immunity from the physical and psychological demands of his position as the kingdom's Head of Operations. Or the day-to-day emotional strain from being the buffer to the volatile and exhausting personality of its crown prince. The past weekend, for instance, had been more interesting than most, and he'd been on high alert every single minute of it. Just the logistics of it - shuttling between Puck's birthday revel at the palace and the Rockefeller hospital benefit with its accompanying press circus - would've been sufficient to have kept him in a constant state of discomposure, but then Sabrina Grimm had appeared and stirred up a veritable media frenzy, before proceeding to sink Puck into one of the lowest moods he'd ever seen his brother nurse since he couldn't remember when.

To say she'd pushed every one of his brother's buttons - in the worst possible way - was stating it lightly.

And now Puck, leaving behind the whole mess, had taken off with Sabrina Grimm into the great wintry unknown without so much as a by-your-leave, tossing out _oh-so-casually_ like some unholy benediction, that when he got back, he was going to be King.

Just like that. _Watch me sit my entitled behind down on that throne, and anyone who's got a problem with it can eat my sword._

It wasn't a surprise, not really. Mustardseed had known for a while that it was imminent, had even hoped to expedite it with appropriate military strategy and some well-timed political advice. So if he were honest, his brother's announcement, having finally arrived on some serendipitous wind of change, was actually both a relief and a thrill. But to have it - along with everything else - all come down in a single weekend was like the weight of the world being dropped upon his shoulders while his knees took turns to buckle beneath it.

And even the stalwart prince of Faerie had his limits.

He liberated one of his eyes from behind his hands and checked the time on the wall clock. _She should be home by now_ , he thought. He pulled out his phone and ordered it (but graciously) to "Call Kate."

The phone obliged with a ring tone, then a soft voice said, "Hello, M."

Mustardseed's lips curved and let his head fall back against his headrest as his eyelids dropped. "How did it go?"

"Oh, as well as can be expected. Apparently, I have three options. Steroid shots - or surgery."

"That's two," Mustardseed pointed out.

"The third is to live with it and take extra-strength Tylenols on the bad days."

Mustardseed sighed. "If Cobweb were here -"

"We've had this conversation before," the answer was slightly chiding. "Your healer, remarkably gifted though he was with injuries and diseases, could hardly stop time."

"But he might have been able to slow it."

"And only prolong the inevitable. It's just arthritis, M. It's not terminal."

"Kate, _everything_ is terminal, eventually."

Kate responded with a laugh, but there was a trace of sadness in it. "I suppose that's true. But enough of me. Something happened today. I can tell; you sound tired."

It was Mustardseed's turn to chuckle and he took a breath to drag out the suspense before speaking. "Well, I hope you choose the steroid shots at least, because rumor has it that there's going to be a coronation in the next fortnight, and you won't want to miss it."

There was a silence as Kate digested the news, then, "He actually did it."

"Yes."

"After all this time of mere threats."

"My brother is overly dramatic," Mustardseed conceded, "but decisive - when he feels like it. He had some help, though. Sabrina Grimm's visit triggered it."

"Ah, yes. I saw the headlines. So . . . it _was_ love, then. I believe you owe me twenty dollars."

"I didn't say it was love. I said Sabrina Grimm's _visit_ was the impetus, but they fought the entire weekend she was here. When they finally left for her grandmother's this afternoon, his face could've turned milk."

"So what prompted it?"

" _I_ believe," Mustardseed said carefully, "that he finally grew bored of being played."

Kate's only comment was a quiet _hmm_.

"Ironic, given his penchant for entertainment at the expense of others," Mustardseed murmured. "Some would call it just desserts. But we're sinking to gossip now, aren't we? So . . . will you come?"

"Are you sure you want me there?"

"Why wouldn't I? I don't see the point of hiding. Not then, not now. Especially not now."

"But your image consultant -"

" - will be utterly impressed with your impeccable taste."

"In men, certainly."

Mustardseed blushed, momentarily distracted.

"M," Kate's tone, while gentle, held a hint of warning. "The public will not look kindly on us. On _you_."

"I love you," Mustardseed said, almost angrily.

"I know." Kate sighed. "Oh, I know. Well, open the floodgates, then. Send me the details?"

The prince relaxed, and his next words were softer, "I'll also send a car -"

"No need. I'll take a cab."

"But -" he protested, and she laughed again.

"Let me," Kate asserted firmly, "while I can. I will not think less of your affection to grant me this."

" _More_ ," Mustardseed corrected her, smiling.

* * *

 **A/N: Happy summer, everyone! (Or winter, if you're down south). This draft has been on my computer FOREVER and I'm so glad to have it finally see the light. Three arcs in this chapter, taking us toward a coronation and a road trip home. Will S get her act together? Will P man up already? Will Mustardseed forever loiter in the wings? The song No Longer (Nichole Nordeman) was playing on my car stereo as I was editing this chapter and writing the next, and it hit home in surprising ways that it almost feels like a theme song of sorts. This story may be about P+S, but as I write it, it's begun to feel like I'm seeing P+S through everyone else's eyes, not those of the omniscient narrator in the way it originally started out. A bit dangerous to diverge this way, but I figured that since there are still many stories to tell, many voices might make it more interesting. I know character-driven tales are often like this (and thus trickier than the straight plot-driven ones); still, fingers crossed that everything converges coherently at the end the way I see it in my mind. Onward!**

 **~qas**


	8. Chapter 8

Each the keeper of their respective secrets, they drove off into the metaphorical sunset.

Which, at four o'clock on a midwinter afternoon was not so much a rosy horizon as a shadow under a sky spitting snow and gloom upon an ever-whitening cityscape. Sabrina, sitting shotgun and huddled in the depths of her coat, peered blearily through the windscreen, secretly glad that for all her earlier protestation, it was Puck who was now behind the wheel.

The boy in question was glaring at the wipers flailing impotently against the fogging glass.

"Should've just flown," he grumbled as he fiddled with the thermostat "We'd be over the clouds by now and laughing at the poor sods below."

Sabrina said nothing. Past experience had taught her that these were exactly the sort of conditions for incubating pointless arguments. Much as she wanted to gripe along with Puck, she remembered that this would be an eight-hour drive (which might well stretch to twelve if the blizzard persisted) and even she recognized that it would be prudent to pace themselves. She pulled out her phone and checked her messages instead.

Mustardseed had been right - the headlines were still flooding her newsfeed, but people were already losing interest; the thousands of notifications in the morning had now dwindled to a paltry few hundred. Bored, she skimmed some of the more recent ones, which all turned out to be permutations of I'm Devastated That He's Off The Market and What On Earth Does He See In Her?

 _I'll let you know when I figure that out, too_ , her insecurities mentally tweeted them back.

"Well? How many death threats did you get?" Puck asked after they'd gone a good half hour in silence, taking his eyes off the slow-moving traffic to sneak a glance at her screen.

"Don't be stupid," Sabrina said pleasantly, "you're a model, not a politician."

"Not a politician? I'm _royalty_!"

"Thank goodness," she chuckled, "because then you can blame your blood, not your morals."

"I'm plenty immoral!"

"Yes, dear, I'm sure you are," she murmured and absently patted his arm.

Puck bit his lip, expression hardening as he returned his gaze to the road.

After a few minutes of silence, he cleared his throat. "So. Not even a poster, huh?"

Sabrina glanced away from her phone long enough to raise an eyebrow in his general direction.

"On your wall," he elaborated, "I saw lots of photos of . . . everybody. Except yours truly. Either you're hiding me or else you must really hate me."

"The former," Sabrina muttered without hesitation.

"Well, then it's the same thing," Puck said, keeping his voice light.

"Because I don't _have_ any pictures of you," Sabrina clarified, "apart from the magazines that everyone else has, which would've made me look like a crazy fangirl if they were stuck all over my room."

"No pictures _at all_?"

"Not even on my phone." It was a fact but there was more spite in Sabrina's tone than she'd meant.

"Yeah, I don't have any of you on mine either."

Sabrina didn't believe him for an instant. Maybe it was his tone - the way he sounded petty and oneupmanship-ish about keeping photographic mementos of each other. But over that, she wasn't sure which surprised her more - the existence of those photos, or the fact that he needed to lie about it.

"Can't imagine when you might've taken any," she returned, "since you left right after the war."

"And it's not as if I came back to visit, ever," he parried, the sarcasm unmistakeable now.

Inexplicably, this made Sabrina's blood heat.

"Hey! What's with the attitude, fairy boy? It's not a crime to not have photos of someone!"

Puck rolled his eyes.

Sabrina rolled hers right back.

Minutes passed. Or maybe it was mere seconds, stretched out thin and tight between them.

"When you were around, we were too busy fighting the Scarlet Hand to be posing for selfies," Sabrina broke the ice at last. "Well, maybe you might've staged a photoshoot with some dragon carcass for your adoring fans, but I was more interested in keeping everyone alive. Why do you care anyway? S'not as if you're big on sentimentality."

"Yep. Sentiment sucks."

Sabrina glared in his direction, but he stared straight ahead, fingers tapping the wheel.

 _Well_ , she thought, _be an ass, why don't you. I'm gonna sit this one out._

Which she did - for about ten minutes. Because while it was completely possible to turn one's back indefinitely on someone when there were miles of ocean between them, it was another thing altogether when the someone was an arm's length away, and one could hear a veritable symphony of dark moods in each inch of that space.

"Okay, what the heck is this all about?" Sabrina burst out.

"Hm?" Puck was infuriatingly reticent.

"We're stuck in this car for the next 6, 7, 8 hours and you're bitching at me for no reason."

"You ain't seen nothin, babe, if you think _this_ is bitchin'. "

"What is _wrong_ with you? Where's this passive-aggressive crap coming from?"

"You wouldn't understand," Puck said between gritted teeth.

"Oh yeah? Try me!"

Puck finally turned to look at her, green eyes simmering as he contemplated the futility in what he was about to do. Then he reached for his phone on the dashboard, flicked his thumb across it and chucked it into her lap. Sabrina retrieved it and stared at the little thumbnails of photos on the screen, then slowly began swiping through them. The more recent ones were of the city, of Faerie and Mustardseed. And there she was - standing with him just the night before at the street corner as they fled his fans. She scrolled further back: places he'd traveled to, cafes and restaurants, bustling markets and colorful temples, undulating deserts, majestic canyons and waterfalls like sculpted glass. Jake was in those pictures, and sometimes they both were - two men trekking around the world in search of magical artifacts and the adventures that followed. Then scenes in airports and Relda's house, scenes with the rest of the Grimms, laughing and goofing off in candid shots of twos and threes; none staged, many poorly composed, all captured in passing, as if by someone content merely to seize random moments in time.

She was in a lot of those moments - with her sister, her arm around her mother, but occasionally alone, looking off-camera, smiling, laughing, smirking, hands on hips, dancing mid-wiggle.

When she'd seen them all, she turned to him. "I didn't know you'd taken those."

"So I lied." He shrugged. "I was traveling for months, years on end. I only started taking pictures after I got a phone. Before, I never had any. Pictures, I mean. It was cool, being able to capture moments just like that, things you don't want to forget."

His insinuation was crystal clear, and Sabrina gnawed on her lip in silence. For the next moments, she was lost in the images he'd saved in his phone - remarkable places, yes, but as she studied them, she realized they were just settings for what was really important to him - people. People as subjects. People as context. People as subtexts for what was really going on in his life as he'd moved from landmark to landmark, across continents, between worlds.

Something in her heart twisted, and she fought it.

"So . . . no pictures on your phone, huh? Was it just no pictures, period, or just none of me?"

Puck's question was a fair one, but she couldn't bring herself to answer, not when she'd be misleading him either way.

"I heard what you said to your roommate," he continued.

Sabrina frowned, confused. She'd said a lot of things to Celine, all of which were out of earshot (or so she'd assumed).

"What _did_ I say?" She carefully inquired.

Puck didn't reply, instead clenching his jaw as he slid the car to a stop at a red light.

"What are you afraid of?" He asked suddenly.

"You mean, like spiders, snakes, being in the dark. . .?" Sabrina returned glibly, fully aware that she was deflecting the real question.

"Avoid it, why don't you?" Puck murmured under his breath. "You're good at that. You've been doing it for years."

"Excuse me? Who made you a shrink now?"

"Don't need to be a shrink to see it," he said with barely-concealed venom, "just look at all the people you've pushed away. Are still pushing away."

The light turned green and Puck pulled out of the intersection and onto a county road, leaving behind the last of the towns for the next few miles. Sabrina sat boiling in her seat, too angry to respond.

This is nothing new, she counseled herself, we've fought like this all through the war, and he was always the rude one, the insensitive pig who laughed and was flippant. You could never trust him to say the right thing, so why are you surprised now?

"It feels wrong," Puck interrupted her thoughts. "That's what you told your roommate. That it feels wrong."

The pieces at last clicked, and Sabrina exploded on him in fury. "You had no right to eavesdrop!"

"I can't help what I hear. You know that. And you shouldn't have been talking about me behind my back."

"It was none of your business what I said!"

"It kind of is, if you're thinking something about me, something that affects me, and you're not telling me. Or _were_ you planning on telling me sometime in the next millennium, maybe?"

"You don't even know what that was about!"

"I heard enough to make an educated guess. And to figure out that it's not just me you've been pushing away. I'm just one in a long line of losers, apparently."

"And did you hear what I told Celine after that? About _why_ it felt wrong?"

Puck huffed cynically. "Lost interest right about then. Didn't feel like sticking around to hear yet another reason for why I'm a loser."

Sabrina bit back a curse and stared out the window as she tried to calm the storm in her soul. Something shifted into focus from among her jumbled thoughts, and she turned back to Puck.

" _Yet_ another reason why for you're a loser?" She parroted his earlier words.

"Don't make this about me."

"Oh, so we can put me on the couch, but not you? Hel-lo, Puck's Insecurities! Hel-lo, Daddy Issues!"

Crud.

Even Sabrina knew she'd crossed a line. In the silence that followed, Puck's knuckles were white around the steering wheel as he stared daggers through the windshield.

"Puck -" she began, only to have him snap at her.

"This has nothing to do with my father. We both know he was a piece of crap as far as fathers go. But maybe _you_ should think about _yours_ \- and your mom, too!"

"What are you talking about? My Mom and Dad are great parents!"

"Who _left_ you. When you were little. They left you with Daphne, with nothing and no idea how to cope, to survive. Poor Sabrina, all alone and left holding the baby. Literally."

"That's not true . . . shut up, Puck. Just shut up. Don't you dare make this about that."

"Well, someone has to. Because that's what bothering you, isn't it? You keep everyone at arm's length because you're terrified that they're all gonna leave you someday."

"Mom and Dad didn't leave me! They were _kidnapped_!"

"Same difference. Didn't matter whether they _meant_ to leave. Point is, one day you were happy and life was daisies, and the next - poof! Abandoned."

"Stop it."

"Then, years later, after you'd partied through the foster care system, knock-knock! Who's at the door - oh, wow, it's Mom and Dad! Hoo. Ray. Break out the balloons and streamers. And yet somehow it didn't change the fact that they _left,_ did it? Left _you_. Dropped the ball. Vamoosed."

"Stop it!"

"And you're still mad at them."

"I'm not -"

"But hm. . . wait . . . they _came home_ in the end, and it turned out they didn't run away; it was actually some evil organization that stole them. And you're so relieved because hey - it wasn't their fault; they _weren't_ horrible parents. But guess what? That anger doesn't just go away because it was all a stupid misunderstanding, does it? It doesn't erase all those years spent in childhood hell, bounced around from foster home to foster home, pretending to survive, does it? _Someone_ still has to pay for that, don't they? For taking that childhood. For making you small and weak. For making you guess. For being here one day and vanishing like a fart in the wind the next. And that's why after all these years, you're still angry, so angry, and that's why you need guarantees, why you need to be sure about _everything_."

"That's a bunch of -!"

"And you think that I'm the same. That just because I left Ferryport Landing once, even though I came back, someday I'll up and disappear for good, too."

"Well, you didn't tell me when you came back! I was the last to know!"

"Because maybe it was supposed to be a surprise!"

"More like a sick joke!"

"Because maybe," Puck continued in a voice of dead calm, "deep down, you're afraid that you're the sort of person people keep leaving."

"Stop the car! Stop the damn car right now!" Sabrina was absolutely livid, tears of rage threatening to boil out of her eyes as she shoved his shoulder violently. "I'm out! I'm not staying in this stinking car one more freaking second!"

"Your wish is my command, milady!" Puck spat as he recklessly pulled into the road shoulder and yanked up the handbrake with so much force it should've broken in his hand. The car was still moving when Sabrina wrenched open the door, kicked it outward and tumbled into the falling snow. Beyond were snowy fields lining the interstate and she plunged into them and started to march, stamping away as her vision clouded with liquid fury.

"And there she goes!" Puck hailed her retreating back. "Running away, as always!"

Sabrina only put more distance between them.

Through the passenger door, Puck watched her, his heart a vice. Then he slammed both palms on the steering wheel, making the horn bark out an echo of his own anger.

Sabrina barely heard the car door slam before she felt a rush of air, and Puck was suddenly right in her path.

She swerved to avoid him and kept going, but Puck flipped over her head and landed once more in front of her.

"Looks like I was right about you." His voice was cold in challenge.

"You know _nothing_ about me!"

"Oh, don't I? Well try this -" he pointed at her, "- coward."

She shoved him violently. "Get. Out. Of. My. Way."

He shoved back. "Or what?"

"Or you eat my fist."

"Oh, big words." He dragged out the _big_ , taunting her.

When she swung at him, it wasn't the wild thrust of her fist into whichever part of his person she could reach. Her aim was deliberate - first her left arm in a feint so that he'd duck, and then she came at him with the other, all her body weight following, right into the side of his face.

He didn't duck.

Instead, his eyes closed.

She saw this a split second too late, just as she connected with a sickening sound, feeling the impact shuddering all the way up to her shoulder.

She stumbled forward; he stumbled back, sinking heavily into the snow. Slowly, he pulled himself back up, one hand cupping his eye, shaking his head vigorously as if to clear it.

"Did that feel good?" He hissed at her. "To finally hit me?"

Sabrina gawked in disbelief, her body still a coil of frantic energy. Legs planted deep in the snow even as her feet were slipping on the grass underneath, she faced him with a hundred emotions she had no names for.

"Why didn't you move, stupid?" She snarled.

"You clearly needed to hit someone."

"And you're offering yourself as a punching bag?" She laughed bitterly.

"Only because in a _real_ fight, you wouldn't stand a chance."

"You piece of -" Sabrina dug her nails so deeply into her palms that in her mind's fog, the pain was clarity. And in that clarity she made herself look at Puck's face, bracing herself for his mocking sneer, eyes glinting in his trademark disregard for the abject misery of all the lesser creatures in his universe.

Instead, she saw sympathy.

Also, a strange yearning, as if he'd transgressed and this were somehow his redemption.

With a flap of his coat that sprayed white around him, he spread his arms - an invitation - and circled her, a wolf toying with its prey.

"Giving up already?" His voice was a rasp. "Throw another one. You know you want to. You've wanted to for a long time."

Sabrina bared her teeth at him, hating his strength, his resilience, his ability to effortlessly excuse himself from the messes of human relationships simply because he was immortal, had had the perspective of seeing entire generations come and go in the blink of a disinterested eye.

She suddenly understood it - that yearning.

She took a step forward, and another. Puck straightened slightly, going as far as to turn his other cheek toward her in a mocking display of sacrifice.

But she kept her eyes fixed on his chest, on the spot over his heart. Her hands - all nails and knuckles - suddenly loosened. Then her arms were under his coat, encircling his body, her head was against his shoulder as it rose and fell, and she was holding him, solid and warm, even while she shook with a rage so powerful that she could hardly breathe.

"Yes," she forced out, "I did. But not at you."

Puck stood frozen, arms still extended like he were trying to hold the world. He swallowed, his furrowed gaze dropping to Sabrina's head, at the snow dusting her hat, the curve of cheek half-buried in his sweater. Slowly, his arms enfolded her, an embrace of cashmere and silk and something else, something for which he didn't quite have a name. He raised a hand to her head, pressed it into himself, felt her body shiver. For a long time, they simply stood. Around them, the flurries flew, relentless, a covering of white over their sins.

"Your father didn't leave you," Sabrina said at last, turning her face so he could hear her words. "He was murdered. By your ex-fiancee. Who was then shipped out of your life."

"Convenient," Puck observed dryly. "Saved them both years of pretending to care."

"Well, it's _their_ loss."

Puck's breath hitched in his throat, the only indication of his incredulity that they were no longer tearing each other apart, that perhaps they never were in the first place. He peered curiously at her. "That sounded like an apology."

Sabrina, fortunately, could recognize a flag of truce when she saw it. "Yeah - sort of. I had no right to say that . . . about your father."

"Even if it was true."

Sabrina heard it in his voice - how hard it'd been to admit it.

"Even if it was true," she agreed. "And speaking of truth, if you hadn't quit eavesdropping on Celine and me - not that you should've in the first place - you'd have heard my reason for not wanting to fake-date you."

"What's that?" Puck asked in an uncommonly quiet voice.

"Because it would be mean. And I wouldn't ever do that to you. Either we do it for real, or we don't at all."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

Around her, she felt Pucks' arms tighten just the slightest bit.

"Also," she added under her breath, "I missed you."

"Yup, the sock in the eye clued me in," Puck quipped with his usual snark, before adding in a much quieter voice, "me, too."

Sabrina snorted. "Well, why couldn't we just _say_ that? Instead of always making it so hard?"

"It's because we do sentiment _so_ well," Puck explained sagely. "Which reminds me, I still say that you should've punched Mirror."

"Huh?"

"Y'know, instead of - ew - _hugging_ him."

"Why? You don't agree with my method of saving the world?" Sabrina teased, feeling the shadows lift a little.

"Hey, I'm just sayin'! _Punch_ first, _then_ hug," Puck continued seriously. "It would've solved so much."

"Like us, you mean?"

"Exactly. Never discount the cathartic value of violence."

"Which, inconveniently, always seems to come at some terrible cost. For inst -" Sabrina had pulled back to look at him and immediately winced.

"How is your eye already swollen shut?" She exclaimed. "And your cheek looks like . . . "

"Like someone smashed my face in? Yep."

"Like someone smashed your face in _days_ ago, not minutes!"

"Ah, well. Accelerated healing means everything also goes downhill faster before it starts getting better. But don't worry, by this time tomorrow, I'll once again be restored to my usual breathtaking perfection."

"Pighead. Still. . . I'm sorry for punching you," she murmured guiltily.

"Oh, I deserved it." Puck chuckled. "If I went a day without annoying someone enough to be beaten to a pulp, I'd consider it a flop. Which makes this -" he pointed to his eye with undisguised pride, "- a trophy. Perfect selfie opportunity right here!"

Out came his phone but Sabrina grabbed his hand. "Wait - not a good idea."

"Why not? You afraid people will think less of you just because you beat me up?"

"No! But you know that supersonic recovery rate you were bragging about earlier? Unless you plan on going underground till New Year, everyone's gonna notice if your busted eye clears up overnight. No human, even with the best makeup, could heal that fast. And that'd totally blow your cover. Other Ppeople can do the math, even if you can't." She poked a finger into his forehead. "Brains, Goodfellow."

Puck stared at her with a mixture of awe and disgust. "You sound like my brother."

"It's this special bond people with common sense share."

"Ugh. Common sense is so last season. What happened to the girl that used to rush into dangerous things? I liked her way more."

"Hah! Well, tough luck, Stinkpot. You get what you get."

"Do I?" His lips curved suddenly and Sabrina's cheeks flushed hot. She'd been on the receiving end of many a boy's smile - everything from awkward to downright leering, with the vast majority spanning the spectrum of bland and benign between them. But Puck's smile, even with his ghastly eye, absolutely took her breath away. And not just because he'd honed it to perfection on an impressionable mortal world; there was history behind that smile, and a future in which she'd seen that it on an older face, one that had promised her things she wasn't prepared to think about just then. She was suddenly very aware that she was still in his arms, with her own against his chest, feeling the thump of his heart against her hands, and that he hadn't shown any inclination to let her go.

"Swooning," he accused with merriment, as Sabrina turned even redder.

"Not!"

"Come on, admit it: you swooned. Everyone who's seen me does."

"You're so full of it!"

"And is this where we smooch and get mushy while the snow falls around us, like those cheesy movies?"

Sabrina pushed him away. "We're barely done fighting!"

Puck laughed, his bloated eye twitching grotesquely as it began to leak tears down his cheek. "And may we never stop, all the days of our long, disagreeable lives. But maybe it's intermission time if the moony-eyes have begun, so unless you want to start making out in the middle of this here blizzard, let's get back to the car, shall we, before the battery dies?"

Sabrina turned to look at Puck's Honda losing its battle against the snowdrifts, the passenger door still wide open from when she'd fled earlier. It'd felt like a cage then but right now it looked like shelter from the storm raging around them - and the one twisting deliciously inside her.

"Yeah," she agreed, stomping toward it. "But we're not making out there, or anywhere. We have to get to Granny's. Family awaits."

"Hey!" Puck's shout stopped her in her tracks and when she turned, he tossed his keys to her.

Sabrina caught them and stared at them in surprise. "What's this?"

"You're the designated driver."

Sabrina's eyebrows seesawed. "First you let me punch you, and now you're letting me drive your car - are you going soft on me, Goodfellow?"

"Your old man'll give me grief if I drove you to Ferryport with only one eye."

"Since when have you cared what my dad thinks? And besides, you can see perfectly well out of the other one. You're trying to be nice to me, aren't you?"

"Take it as an apology," Puck said airily as he slid into the passenger seat with a groan, "of sorts. Now we're even. Although if you tell anyone I said sorry for anything, I'll have a swarm of ticks and lice come live in your hair."

* * *

It was almost eleven when they arrived in Ferryport Landing and added the Honda to the other cars blanketed in snow on Relda's driveway. They dragged their bags out of the trunk and marched up to the front door. Dusting themselves off on the step, Sabrina knocked, thankful that after the war, they no longer needed the complicated lock system that had once protected her grandmother's home.

The door opened with a spill of golden light and Veronica enveloped Sabrina in a hug.

"Hi, sweetheart," she greeted, "come on in."

Then, over her daughter's shoulder, her eyes landed on Puck's face and widened.

"Do I even want to know what happened?" She murmured into Sabrina's hair.

"You really don't," Sabrina murmured back, just before shouting, "Hello! I'm finally here!" to the rest of the family who'd wandered up from their various sitting places to meet her.

One by one, their gazes fell on Puck and their faces changed so comically that Sabrina found it very hard to hold back laughter.

Daphne, unable to tear her eyes away from his deformed features, pulled Sabrina aside. "Did you do that? For crying out loud, sis, I was _kidding_ , you know, what I said about ripping into each other on the way here!"

Whatever Sabrina had been planning to lobby in her defense was drowned out by Jake's arrival into the room from the kitchen, arm around a beautiful woman Sabrina had met just once before. She had barely time to recall her name - Esmerelda - before her uncle guffawed and slapped Puck on the shoulder.

"I leave you alone for a few months and look what happens! Who did it this time? The Scarlet Hand - or Sabrina?"

Puck laughed and shook his head. "Give me the Scarlet Hand any day - at least I could've hit back. Nope," he gestured grandly to his face, "this is all Grimm."

Everyone looked at Sabrina in astonishment and grudging awe. Puck on the offense was no easy opponent, and anyone would have their hands full just holding him off. But to actually land one on him required a whole new level of skill.

Puck noticed their expressions and frowned. "Hey! It's not like she got one past me, I _let_ her do it, okay?"

"Why?" Several voices chorused.

"Cheaper than therapy," Puck shrugged. "She needed to hit something, and I offered myself."

He winked at Henry. "And besides, she made it up to me after."

Henry turned an unflattering color and glared, but wisely refrained from taking the bait.

"But . . . what about your modeling?" Relda asked in concern. "You can't be in photos looking like that! I'll see if we have some of that Fast Healing Balm in the Hall of Wonders after supper."

"Nah. I'll heal in a few hours," Puck waved her off. "It's already tons better; you should've seen it right after, all drippy and disgusting and purple. But enough of my eye; where's this Christmas feast I've been promised? I'm starving!"

"Oh, that's not till tomorrow - Christmas Day," Relda explained apologetically. "Tonight was just a simple dinner. We had it hours ago but there are some leftovers if you're interested. Do you want me to heat up something for you?"

Puck gaped at them in horror. "The King of Faerie does not eat leftovers! Move aside, peasants, and let me through!"

"Where are you going?" Sabrina called after him as he climbed the staircase, backpack in tow.

"When it's time for the feast, summon me! Until then, I'll be in my room recovering from Grimm's vicious attack. Adios!"

"I thought he said he _let_ you punch him?" Henry said, frowning.

Jake snorted. "Twenty bucks he'll be back down here later to raid the fridge."

* * *

Jake won the bet - or would've, if he'd been awake.

And he would've kicked himself for not laying some green down on Sabrina as well, because an hour after everyone had gone to bed, she tiptoed downstairs to see if she could find something to appease her growling stomach. She wasn't surprised to see the kitchen light on, or to hear scavenging sounds from the fridge.

"So much for 'I Don't Eat Leftovers'," she said sarcastically, but quietly, not wanting to wake the sleepers upstairs. "Don't eat everything, you pig. I want some, too."

"Finders keepers," Puck's voice emerged from behind the fridge door, followed soon after by the rest of him.

And Sabrina almost swallowed her tongue.

Boxers.

That's all he had on.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

It wasn't fair!

"You're. Indecent." She hissed.

"How rude. Why, my table manners have definitely improved since we were children," Puck assured her. "Look, I'm sharing!"

At the thump of something against her nose, she opened her eyes to find a bag of carrots suspended in her line of sight.

"I _meant_ ," she ground out sulkily as she grabbed the bag, "that you should dress more . . . conservatively. It's the middle of winter. It's freezing in here."

There was a pause and then Puck exploded in guffaws. Obviously _he_ didn't have an ounce of consideration for the rest of the sleeping household.

"I'm used to the cold. Did you forget I used to live outdoors? But why do I think you're not actually concerned for my well-being?" He strutted up to her and winked. "Get used to this, Grimm. We're going to be married someday."

He was right, but . . . still. How was she expected to carry on a sensible conversation while looking at him looking like . . . that? Sabrina exhaled in resignation and fixed her eyes on what he held in his hand.

"Why do I get veggies and you get meat?" She grumbled, eyeing the plate of roast chicken Puck had evidently claimed for himself. "We both missed the same number of meals while on the road."

"Because I'm royalty and therefore more important than you, obviously. And -" Puck tipped his head toward the fridge, " - don't waste your time scavenging in there because there isn't anything else to eat. I looked. I'm still deeply resentful at being cheated of an actual feast, by the way. And I don't believe that there is even going to be one tomorrow. I've searched every inch of this kitchen and I don't see a pig or cow or any other animal carcass we could possibly roast; no potatoes, not even a banana. So just in case this chicken is the only thing standing between starvation and us eating each other tomorrow, I'm having it all, thank you very much."

Sabrina gaped at him in dismay.

"But I _could_ be persuaded to leave you some scraps," he smirked wickedly and twirled a lock of her hair around his finger. "I'm not above a little charity, especially at Christmastime. Let's see your best offer."

Sabrina's expression instantly collapsed into a scowl. She'd seen Puck taunt his enemies in the past and no one had ever come out ahead of the Trickster King; it was far less humiliating to concede defeat right away. Without another word, she snatched the bag from his hand and edged past, stopping by the fridge only long enough to extract a bottle of ranch dressing. Parking herself at the kitchen table, she grimly began eating. She looked, Puck observed with some amusement, like an overripe tomato about to burst. He was tempted to see just much more she could take before she was complete putty in his hands, then changed his mind; they might have survived the car ride together but he could still feel the miles between them.

"So," he said, leaning against the kitchen island a safe distance away, "Jake cornered me for some mushy talk."

"About?" Sabrina seemed very intent on studying the text on the package of carrots.

"We were both in line for the john and - by the way, am I the only one who thinks one bathroom in a house with eight bedrooms is really bad planning?"

Sabrina chewed and waited. When Puck didn't continue, she ventured, "I'm guessing this isn't about Esmerelda?"

"Fuuuuh -ny," Puck said sarcastically. "If he so much as said her name, I'd have run a mile in the opposite direction. I mean, she's okay, I guess, but the two of them together. . . ugh. So. Much. Kissing."

"I'll take your word for it. I only met her at Easter and they seemed quite self-controlled then."

"All an act, I can assure you. If you'd been there when they first met in Barcelona. . ." Puck made shuddering noises and then fell silent, during which Sabrina listened to the sound of carrots being pulverized resonate through her head.

"I told him I didn't know what we were."

She looked up at last, lingering on Puck's body one second too long before desperately focusing on the cookie jar on the counter behind him. He'd tossed out the words casually, but enough of their earlier conversations, along with Mustardseed's insight, made her wonder if there might secretly have been a question hiding in Puck's comment.

"Mom and Daphne grilled me, too, just before I went to bed," she admitted. "At least you only had to endure Uncle Jake until one of you could use the bathroom. Mom and Daphne invited themselves into my room and gave me the third degree."

It had all begun innocently enough with her sister sitting cross-legged on her bed and her mother settled expectantly in the small chair in the corner of her bedroom. It could well have been a happy reunion of a mother and her two daughters but Sabrina had easily recognized the purpose of this visit; her life of late, after all, had felt like a series of comedic episodes out of whose outcomes she was forever attempting to dig herself.

As she'd expected, Veronica and Daphne had made her verify that yes, Puck had indeed let her decorate his face. Daphne had been outraged but their mother had thought it was rather sweet and clearly indicative of his feelings for her. Which had turned the discussion to Sabrina's reciprocation of said feelings. In which Sabrina had hedged and conceded, in her best attempt at honesty, that Puck was "not as awful as he used to be."

Daphne and Veronica had both looked skeptical. Whereupon Daphne had pulled herself to her full sitting height and said, "I hope you both aren't going to bicker and be all tensiony while you're here. I mean, it's Christmas - y'know, season of non-fighting? If I have to magically hang mistletoe from every square inch of ceiling to help you guys get it over with, I will, okay? Unless you've done it in the car already?"

Which Sabrina had confirmed very vigorously in the negative, although not feeling a sense of deja vu, explaining further that she and Puck were merely Working Things Out.

Which Daphne had rapturously translated to Dating But Not Telling Yet.

Which Sabrina had counter-translated to I Think We're Starting With Being Real Friends.

To which her mother had commented, "That's good," and Daphne had bemoaned, "That's bad!" before rationalizing, "You're _already_ friends! Move on!"

Sabrina and Veronica had spent the next ten minutes reassuring Daphne that real life wasn't at all like the movies, after which her sister had grudgingly admitted defeat. Sabrina, however, had felt no satisfaction in the victory, only gratitude that her mother had somehow understood what she'd left unsaid: that the friendship Daphne had so easily discounted was worth fighting for, even if everyone else seemed invested in hurrying them along to something more.

"Well?" Puck's voice anchored her once more in the present. "What did you tell them?"

"Same as you," Sabrina concluded, having sifted through the manic exchange with Daphne and Veronica, "that I don't really know, but also that I think we're going to be okay."

"Okay being . . .?"

Sabrina finally let her gaze lock on his face. "If I had to let someone see all the horrible parts of me, I'd rather it be you than anyone else."

Puck blinked at her, then smiled as if she'd given him a Christmas feast to rival all other Christmas feasts.

"Because you have _so_ many horrible parts," he said almost affectionately.

Sabrina nodded solemnly. "Second only to _you_ , I'm sure."

"You have no idea," Puck replied. And because Sabrina had dipped her eyes once more to the carrots, she missed the uncertain look that had inexplicably clouded his.

* * *

 **A/N: I hope everyone's had a smooth first couple weeks of school! Summer went by too quickly, didn't it? It's always the busiest time of the year for me - places to go, people to spend time with, and all kinds of pleasant distractions. I know you might be getting an abandonment vibe from the long lag times between chapter updates so I'd like to reassure everyone that I have every intention of finishing this story. I work on it every day; sometimes that means entire sections, other times it's just a few lines and yet other times it's tweaking and editing something I'd already written, and throwing chunks out. I've done that to this chapter at least twice, and it's changed the entire mood and also driven the plot (I know, right - what plot?) in a totally different direction. So weird when that happens, but very exciting.**

 **Also, after writing 8 chapters, this story has taken a very different turn and when we get to the end, we can talk more about it so as not to be all spoilery now. It's still about friendships, but maybe also a bit about shortcuts and whether, when we think about love, the destination is the main point or if there are other aspects even more important than simply getting to the finish line.**

 **I originally started out feeling like this might be a 10-chapter story but it's shaping up to be more like 20. I was a bit dismayed when I mapped it in my head and realized I wasn't even halfway there. For instance, Mustardseed is sort of crucial to everything, and I've barely begun to tell his story! All that to say that we're in for a bit of a ride, friends and I hope you'll stay with me till the end, even if it takes me forever! The next chapter is already written, and it's a monster so I might split that into two, but I hope to post it/them soon! Don't let me slack off!**

 **ttfn!**

 **~qas**


	9. Chapter 9

Had Daphne had her way, Christmas morning at Relda's would've been a scene straight out of a Normal Rockwell painting. Minus Saint Nicholas, of course; he was obviously a myth, and Daphne would know - she'd met almost every Everafter there was who mattered, and they'd all laughed uproariously when she'd asked if he was one of them.

The reality of Christmas morning at Relda's, sadly, was more like There's Cereal For Breakfast If You Get Out Of Bed Before Noon, Otherwise Lunch Is Sandwiches From Last Night's Leftovers.

Worse: no opening of any presents until after supper, because everyone still had last-minute shopping to do in town, Basil was expecting an Amazon delivery not sooner than 8 pm and Jake, having misheard a phone message from Veronica, had gotten Henry a subscription to Knit & Purl Socks instead of National Stocks and he was hoping to high heaven that the customer service people weren't off on Christmas Day, otherwise his brother was going to be very confused when he opened his gift in front of everyone.

So Daphne had sighed and curled up in an armchair, novel in hand, from which to watch everyone's antics. There was her uncle on his cellphone by the window, scowling and unshaven and wearing what could only be described as a dressing coat made from a bear pelt. There were her parents, ignoring each other over the breakfast table, one buried behind the drooping pages of The Ferryport Herald while the other read the same news off a tablet. There was Granny with her head in the refrigerator, humming and bursting into disjointed snatches of random carols. And Mr. Canis, padding softly into the house after his outdoor meditation (which he enjoyed daily, regardless of the weather), weaving his way around people and furniture on his way to the toaster.

Humdrum, Daphne thought, but peaceful. That is, until her sister and Puck made their dramatic entrances. She glanced at the staircase but all was quiet; they were probably exhausted from the long drive and Puck, especially, must be still recovering from his injury. She shook her head at the memory of his battered face from the night before. Really - those two needed a therapist just to have a simple conversation.

Relda's caroling abruptly ended in an exclamation. "Oh dear, I'm afraid we'll have to change lunch plans. Someone ate all the roast chicken we were saving for sandwiches today."

"Dangit," Henry said bitterly from behind his newspaper just as Jake, scowl momentarily disappearing, exclaimed, "Ha! Pay up, Hank!"

Henry flipped open his wallet and tossed a twenty in his brother's general direction. "At least they were stuffing their faces and not doing anything . . . else."

"That we're aware of," Mr Canis said evenly, buttering his toast.

Veronica looked up from her tablet. "They know what they're doing. They're adults."

"Only one of them is," Henry countered, sniffing. "The other's mentally stunted."

"Honey, be fair," his wife chided him. "He's been ruling an empire for the last decade."

Henry made a disagreeable sound and muttered something about 'prancing around in magazines wearing overpriced costumes'.

Daphne grinned. A decade after they'd all won a war together, her father still had reservations about Sabrina and Puck. Although to be fair, the previous night's display of misplaced affection had hardly done wonders for their cause.

A noise from the staircase distracted her, and she turned. Sabrina was coming down the stairs, her feet feather-light in fuzzy socks as she navigated the last squeaky step into the kitchen. Her sister looked rested, Daphne noted, and none the worse for her long journey, nor her altercation with the volatile boy fairy.

Or man, as he'd now become; she'd have to get used to that. She still remembered doing a double take when she'd first seen the photos in the magazines: the scruffy, squeaky-voiced boy with whom she'd once watched spaghetti westerns over bags of chips had suddenly grown ten inches and facial hair. If it'd been a shock to her, she could only imagine what the change must have done to Sabrina, who'd spent the last few years denying being just as impressed as the countless millions of fans who couldn't get enough of him.

Before Daphne could call out a greeting, Esmerelda, smiling serenely, descended behind Sabrina, and everyone responded with the social grace reserved only for visitors they didn't wish to prematurely scare away. Esmerelda was her uncle's most recent paramour; they'd met at a Spanish class for which he'd signed himself up, for reasons no one could fathom, since Jake was already fluent in the language (Daphne suspected that it had nothing to do with acquiring a new skill and everything to do with Esmerelda being the course instructor). Jake had introduced her to the Grimm family earlier that spring, a meeting involving extremely unselfconscious demonstrations of their intentions which caused even the typically stalwart Mr Canis to politely excuse himself amidst much pointed clearings-of-throat from everyone else present. Awkward public displays of affection aside, their relationship seemed to have brought more happiness to her uncle since Briar's death than any of his prior romantic entanglements, and Daphne was grateful for it.

Very different, she reflected, from her own sister and the boy who'd left his kingdom - along with his childhood - for her.

Sabrina now poured herself a cup of coffee, pecked Veronica on the cheek and peered over the Ferryport Herald at Henry.

"Morning," she smiled, then winked at Daphne, rolling her eyes at the kitchen scene for her sister's benefit. "Merry Christmas."

Daphne grinned back and opened her mouth to reply.

Then quickly shut it again as footsteps thumped down the staircase, accompanied by a shout.

"I'm starving! That feast you guys told me about had better be waiting on the table right now."

Henry glared at Jake. "I want my money back. If he's starving, he can't have mooched the chicken last night."

Jake, apparently still on the phone with Knit & Purl Socks, laughed. "I've seen him eat, and the kid's a bottomless pit, so yes, he's totally capable of mooching the chicken _and_ feeling like an entire third world country mere hours later and - oh . . . yes, I've been holding for the last fifteen minutes, ma'am, and I need to speak to someone who can change my order right now. It's a gift for . . . what? No, I am _not_ interested in the Great Value Extended Subscription With The Yarn Of The Month Freebie, I don't even _want_ that publication- wait, no, do _not_ transfer me to the -"

"Excuse me?" Puck looked offended as he at last appeared, his face having improved dramatically overnight. "When there's royalty in the room, peasants, you don't pretend they're scenery. You fall on your knees and pander to my every need. And right now, I need food! Hey, Grimm! You gonna serve me or what?"

Sabrina paused, pursing her lips for a moment before they curved dangerously upward. Nonchalantly, she picked an egg out of the carton lying open on the kitchen island and whirled to face him. "Come and get it, Your Majesty."

"Sabrina, his face's just healed!" Granny entreated from across the room, as Henry pushed his chair back and hurriedly moved out of the way. While he ducked, he called out to Veronica, "See? Mentally stunted, I said!"

Near the window, Jake abruptly yelled, "Fine! I'll take the refund! Just cancel the remaining issues, for Pete's sake! And no, it _isn't_ a very Merry Christmas, no thanks to you!" before slamming his phone on the window sill.

Esmerelda sidled up to Jake, her eyes warily following Puck as he advanced on Sabrina in a blatant dare. "I thought you said they'd outgrown this," she commented doubtfully.

The remnant of Jake's frustration exploded. "Clearly I was wrong, okay? I can't get anything right, apparently! Not gift subscriptions, not teenagers, not anything!"

"They're not teenagers, sweetheart," Esmerelda pointed out.

"And now it seems I can't even tell children from adults! Christmas is supposed to be peaceful and full of goodwill! Peace, my foot! And as for goodwill -" he thumbed Puck and Sabrina, the expression on whose faces suggested anything but, "- help yourself from the loony bin."

Esmerelda retreated in alarm, glancing helplessly at Relda, who smiled absently as if she were completely used to her kitchen being a war zone.

Dejectedly, Daphne opened her novel and tried to block out the madness. Normal Rockwell, she decided, was what all _other_ dysfunctional families looked like next to hers.

* * *

To Puck's utter satisfaction, there was indeed a Christmas Day Feast. Although, as he'd had grounds to suspect, there had been no indication that it might even happen, judging from the house being devoid of anything edible from which even a normal meal might be prepared, let alone a holiday feast. When tea time (packaged cookies from the pantry cupboard) had come and gone and no one had so much as boiled a pot of water, even Sabrina began to be concerned.

Then, half an hour before dinner, Relda asked Daphne and Basil to set the table while she disappeared upstairs. She returned minutes later carrying a smoking-hot ham the size of an ale barrel, and ordered everyone to 'bring out the rest'.

"Is this from where I think this is from?" Henry asked suspiciously, even as every other face registered slack-jawed astonishment.

"This family is like a black hole when it comes to food," Relda explained, "and I don't have the energy to cook for an army like I used to. Besides, it's Christmas. I deserve a day off like everyone else, and the Hall of Wonders is more than able to deliver."

No one argued about that, especially not after watching platter after platter of unimaginably extravagant goodies borne out of the upstairs bedroom as if it were a magic hat. Which, in a sense, it was.

"I thought it was just weapons," Basil commented to Daphne. "I didn't know you could get food there, too."

Daphne shrugged. "I guess the Hall of Wonders owes her, after the horrors Mirror put her through."

"Works for me," Basil nodded.

Puck, unsurprisingly, was over the moon.

"Was this why you starved us all day, Old Lady?" He beamed at her, his arm around her frail shoulders. "So we would do this miracle justice?"

"Of course, dear," Relda replied. "That, and I needed someone to finish last night's leftovers. It's so annoying, leftovers in the fridge growing all moldy. People are so picky these days. Nothing like a good famine to remind us that all food is good food."

"Amen," Puck said sincerely. "And just so everyone knows, _I_ helped with the leftovers last night, in particular, the chicken. I offered to let Grimm help, too, but she wasn't interested in negotiating. She can be very stubborn."

Sabrina turned crimson at the memory, which didn't go unnoticed.

"And what were the terms of negotiation?" Jake asked with a glint in his eye. Faced with the promise of a feast, he seemed to have fully recovered from his earlier tantrum.

"There are children present," Puck replied with fake concern. "It's best they not hear the details."

Jake snorted. "I can guess, given the shade of her complexion."

Veronica gazed at her daughter in sympathy. "Well," she skillfully deflected, "I've been starving since breakfast. Shall we eat?"

The rest of the family responded in thunderous assent but out of the corner of his eye, Puck saw Sabrina blow out the breath she'd been holding.

* * *

When the food had been eaten and everyone left slightly merry from the eggnog, they found places to sit in Relda's living room. Henry and Veronica squeezed into the love seat while Daphne and Basil took the chair-and-a-half, she curled amongst the cushions and he perched on the armrest. Jake and Esmerelda snuggled in a corner of the sectional while Relda settled into her favorite armchair and Mr Canis lowered himself gingerly into the faded recliner that used to be Basil Sr.'s.

Everyone gazed expectantly at Puck and Sabrina, who made a beeline for the remaining space on the sectional and awkwardly jostled each other to avoid being next to the lovebirds.

"Shall we open our gifts?" Relda asked, pointedly ignoring them. "I'm the oldest, so it's my call."

"I'm technically older than you," Puck protested.

"Which is why you get the first one," she smiled and tossed him a package.

"It's the salve," Puck said when he'd unwrapped it. "Aw, and here I was expecting a small kingdom."

"I briefly considered a gallon of forgetful dust for the victims of all your unthinkable pranks," Relda said seriously. "But I felt that for the sake of your fans, giving you your face back had the higher priority."

"I don't think forgetful dust would be strong enough, anyway," Daphne giggled.

"And besides," Puck said skittishly, "why would anyone want to forget they'd ever met me?"

The next half hour was a storm of shredded paper and curling ribbon as packages were ripped open and exclaimed over. Sabrina, whose arm was crushed against her uncle's, leaned toward Puck as they watched the last of the gifts revealed and displayed.

"I uh. . . didn't buy you anything. I didn't know if I'd even see you at Christmas and -"

"Relax, Grimm," he touched his head to hers with a smirk, "I didn't buy you anything, either."

"Oh, okay," she replied in relief, eyeing the sparkling necklace Esmerelda had just lifted from a velvet box, for which she thanked Jake with a rather scandalous kiss on the lips. Thank goodness she and Puck weren't exchanging gifts in front of everyone - who knew what disaster might follow.

Suddenly, Puck bounced up from his seat and waved his arms, almost hitting Daphne in mid-stoop stuffing tissue paper into a trash bag. "Hey! We're not done! I have something for Grimm."

With the exception of himself and Esmerelda, this could've been intended for anyone in the room, but somehow everyone knew exactly whom he meant.

"I thought you said -" Sabrina blinked in confusion as Puck turned to roll his eyes at her.

"I said I didn't _buy_ you anything. This cost me zilch. Here you go." Something small fell into her lap and everyone leaned forward.

Sabrina extracted the item. "It's a wooden . . . thing."

"It's a pipe, doofus," Puck said genially, sitting down beside her again.

Daphne mock-whispered to Jake, "You know it's serious when he starts giving you musical instruments."

Puck pulled out his own pipe and blew a tune on it. "Play this," he instructed Sabrina.

"Not to mention music lessons," Jake mock-whispered back to his younger niece.

Sabrina studied the little wooden cylinder doubtfully before blowing on one end and emitting a small _toot_.

"Unh- uh," Puck shook his head. "Listen." He blew the tune again.

On her second attempt, Sabrina managed a decent imitation, albeit slightly quavery.

Puck grinned in satisfaction. "Yep. Just like that."

"What's -" Sabrina began, but he interrupted her. "Just wait."

At first, nothing happened. Then a small cloud of soot puffed out of the hearth, followed by a swarm of winged creatures enveloped in a black fog.

"It's a plague of locusts!" Basil yelled in excitement. "Sabrina summoned a plague of locusts!"

"Sacrilege!" Puck spat in indignation, as the bodies of the flying visitors quivered and shed their ebony coating to reveal tiny green and brown pixies. They fluttered around Sabrina's head in a dizzying tornado. "Pixies are far more skilled at stripping crops. Also, livestock. Locusts have nothing on these guys."

He turned to Sabrina with a grin. "Merry Christmas, Grimm," he crowed.

Daphne's jaw dropped along with everyone else's in the room. Puck had given her sister _pixies._ And while Daphne wasn't quite sure of the significance of the gesture, she was certainly willing to bet her entire collection of mushy young adult literature that he didn't just hand them out to _anyone_.

And clearly, Sabrina wasn't holding it all together, either. When she continued to gape along with the rest of the family, Puck elbowed her. "Well? Don't just sit there with your trap open. They're yours. Order them to do something."

"Like what?" Sabrina said in a dazed whisper.

"I dunno - whatever you want. . . give someone a donkey's head or get food or something!"

"Uh. . . okaaay. Can I have some uh. . . hot chocolate . . . um, please?"

Puck slapped his forehead. "You sound like you're begging! You don't ask them like _they_ have a choice. _You_ say, 'Bring me some hot chocolate now!' Y' know - act like a queen!"

Everyone's eyes flitted to Henry and watched him wrestle with the implications of Puck's words.

Puck blew a noisy breath through his nose. "What? She's gonna be Queen of Faerie someday, isn't she? She's gonna have to learn to order people around and scare them half to death. Well, even more than she already does, I mean. I thought she should practice on her own bunch of minions."

"But . . ." Sabrina's voice emerged as a bleat. "I don't think . . . I can't be Queen of -"

Jake nudged her hard. "Someone gives you your own magical genie army, you take it, kid. Heck, if _you_ don't want it, _I'll_ take it." Then his eyes darted despondently to Esmerelda's neck ringed by the necklace he'd been so proud to present her earlier. "Way to outdo everyone else, Your Majesty."

"It's not my fault that peasants have no resources whatsoever," Puck replied.

The minions, having vanished at Sabrina's command, materialized with a mug of hot chocolate for Sabrina and another for Puck, who beamed.

"Good thinking, minions!" He slurped enthusiastically. "I like it when you guys take the initiative."

Sabrina accepted hers with much more grace. "Um. Thank you -"

Puck almost spat out his mouthful."NO! First 'please' and now 'thank you'! Have you learned nothing? Look, you don't owe them, okay? You say, 'Well done' or "Good job'. _Never_ 'thank you'! "

He turned to the small swarm of pixies and pointed at Sabrina. "She didn't mean that. She isn't grateful in the least. What she actually means is she thought you didn't totally screw it up. And if she ever says anything that sounds remotely thankful in future, I order you to disregard it, you hear? Any of you messes with her, you have me to deal with. Got it?"

The minions twittered and Puck waved them off. "Okay, scram. Mm. This is good hot chocolate. I'm not gonna ask what they put in it, just in case it isn't legal."

Jake hooted with laughter. "You're pushing four thousand, Mister! At your age, _everything's_ legal."

Daphne finally found her voice. "You might've included everyone else, too, sis. _I'd_ like to try illegal hot chocolate."

"Yeah, me, too," Basil muttered, "season of goodwill toward men and all."

Sabrina faltered. "Uh. . . I didn't even think . . . Um, okay, next time I'll ask for a feast."

"Ah, yes, while we're on the subject, there are some rules, so pay attention," Puck cut in. "Keep it straightforward: go get me stuff, go annoy someone. But no slave jobs like fetching water to clean out the toilet or taking in the laundry, 'cos that's just lame and insulting. They like a challenge. And no asking them to kill people, or prolong your life, or make someone fall in love with you, stupid things like that, comprende?"

Basil whistled. "Boy, I love family holidays! First the Hall of Wonders; now a personal army of genies that can grant wishes."

"And keep your sister out of trouble," Puck added.

"Hey!" Sabrina protested, "I can take care of myself!"

"Says the girl who walked into a media trap," Puck shot back.

Henry cleared his throat above the commotion. Everyone paused and looked in his direction.

"So . . . " he said uneasily, staring at Sabrina, "Queen of Faerie? Is there something you wanna tell Mom and me?"

Sabrina froze, but any protest she might've mustered was drowned out by Puck's scornful interjection, "You've gotta be kidding! A guy can't give a girl her own army without clearing it with her old man first? Sheesh. What is this - the sixteenth century?"

* * *

 **A/N: A new chapter just in time for the weekend!**

 **I am happy (and ashamed) to say that I've finally figured out where this story is going. Because when I started writing it, I had no idea. Always dangerous, posting First Parts of a story without knowing if Later Parts are going to behave themselves. And how audaciously ironic is it that I titled it Tell Me Your Story? Anyway, I've learned my lesson: never again will I publish before finishing the last chapter.**

 **So: plot. There is one, yes. And it's the kind that needs extra chapters. Like, extra-more than the 10 I'd planned. Initially, after counting, I tore my hair because I'm impatient to get to the finish line. But I've since made peace with myself: it might not have started out looking like this, but if this is the monster it's become, then let's do this, and may it be a heck of a ride.**

 **This update and the next were really one enormous chapter at first, but which I split just so we don't all sink into a word coma digesting it in one sitting. It's snapshot-ish: P+S are at the Grimm Christmas get-together. Not exactly plot-driven action scenes, but, hey, it's the _Grimms,_ all together under one roof, and family dynamics tell a story all their own, right? Especially when we're seeing that family through different eyes at 21 than at 11. I hope you enjoy.**


	10. Chapter 10

Festivities at the Grimms' continued through the following week. Businesses reopened their doors the day after Christmas and in spite of the snow that brought transportation almost to a standstill, Ferryport Landing bustled slowly back to life. Very few of the old buildings remained from when the sisters had first come to the town a decade ago - the war was largely responsible for that, a catalyst for the many changes long forthcoming. The townsfolk themselves, for one; while there were still some familiar faces, most had left, trickling out in a gradual exodus to seek their fortunes beyond the borders that had once kept them from freedom. Others had since moved in, enticed by the rumors of a peaceful retirement village and promises of a safe haven from the outside world. Enterprises of a curious variety had sprung up to meet their needs: traditional mom-and-pop bakeries and hardware shops now stood alongside neon-lit providers of cellphone plans and other modern conveniences in an eclectic mix of old and new. As often as she returned from the city to visit her grandmother, Sabrina marveled at how everything had changed while somehow remaining exactly the same. It was as if the war had wiped away only the facade of an old, small town and left in its place the spirit of a community that rebuilt itself stronger than before.

Fittingly, even the newsstand in the town square was a testament to this evolution. Print newspapers and bagged candy still hung from the front of the freshly-painted cart, but now a banner above them advertised "Go Paperless: Digital Copies of Ferryport Herald - Subscribe Here!" And stacked fifty-high against the cash register (that at least was still old-school) were the latest issues of the fashion magazines that had rocketed Puck (and his lesser-known-but-just-as-aesthetically-sumptuous-sibling) to mortal fame and glory.

Yes - a decade later he was still a household name in Ferryport Landing. Except where maledictions had once rained upon that name by the victims of his wicked ministrations, it was now spoken with sighs of covert delight. If this shift was any indication, it would seem that The Trickster's beautiful face and enviable pedigree - at least according to the tabloids - had somehow absolved him of even the most heinous of his crimes and granted him amnesty in the now-hallowed cobblestone streets of his youth.

In one of which he now stood, buying gum and a bag of Cheetos at the corner store while the proprietor's daughter gawked and died from pure, unbridled joy. Beside him, Sabrina struggled to keep a straight face. She should be used to this, she told herself, having been at the center of the media circus that had thrust her into sudden notoriety as Puck's significant other. It wasn't as if he were strutting and posturing in front of strangers and winking at every girl who walked by; they'd merely come into town with Daphne for sundries and an ice cream treat in the not-so-newly-restored diner. And if they just happened to be on her old stomping ground where they'd spent the benign years of their childhood, before she'd had to define who they were to each other and then defend it to the masses, what of it?

Perhaps it wasn't only the town that had had to adapt to time and circumstance.

Daphne, well aware that she was the third wheel to the tentative twosome that were her sister and Celebrity! Puck, subtly watched them banter in the car, along the produce aisle, at the gas station pump. Much as she was disappointed that they weren't any more affectionate than before, she couldn't deny the almost palpable tension that kept them a mere gaze away, the span of a touch apart, aware enough of each other's presence to notice when anyone else looked in the other's direction a nanosecond too long. It was a good tension, Daphne observed - not the kind she associated with the angst-filled novels in which she sometimes lost herself, but the steady pull of something resilient and strong.

 _A bond_ , she realized with wonder and quiet satisfaction. _Better than I'd dreamed_.

Back at the house, Puck divided his time between arm-wrestling Jake and Basil, plundering the contents of the fridge and discussing Everafter politics with Henry, Relda and Canis. In Henry's presence, he avoided mentioning Sabrina, although Daphne suspected it had less to do with intimidation (as if Puck were ever afraid of Henry) than no longer feeling he had to rub it in the older man's face. One evening, for instance, when everyone had been dissecting the succession traditions of ancient monarchies over beer at the kitchen table, Sabrina had entered the room, stood behind Puck's chair and with one hand on his shoulder, listened as she sipped the can of soda she held in the other. Daphne had watched in delight as Puck had leaned into Sabrina's arm and her sister had smiled as if it were the most natural thing in the world. If anyone else noticed, they didn't show it. Henry hadn't even raised an eyebrow.

But Daphne had - had wanted to raise not just her eyebrows but the very roof with excitement. Their simple, almost distracted exchange was better than anything she'd read in any of her storybooks. Had she still been eight years old, she'd have choked on her fist and - if she'd lived to take her next breath - chewed it off at the wrist. As it was, she remained gleefully silent, although she permitted herself a quick moment of smugness to savor the thought: _there is hope yet_.

Sabrina, for her part, was more relaxed than she'd been as a teenager - and certainly her eleven-year-old self who'd had her first brush with otherwordly societies and immediately sprinted in the opposite direction as if hell itself had been on her heels. And while it would never cross her mind to initiate these political discussions, she was more than game to participate - mostly listening, but occasionally asking a question about the other Fae courts, which were largely still unfamiliar to the Grimms, or adding a comment on the general mood of the mortal population regarding diversity or prejudice. Puck always gave her his full attention, not merely to acknowledge her in the room, but also because he seemed to genuinely value what she had to say. When they weren't bickering, it was easy to see that they would do a much better job at Faerie's helm than Puck's parents had before him.

If Sabrina ever came round to it, that is.

With Christmas behind them and the new year with all its possibilities beckoning, the discussions turned to Puck's coronation. Two days after Christmas, Mustardseed had called Puck with the date, who'd then announced it with his typical flair to everyone within earshot, and for a solid hour following, the entire Grimm household had been a circus of political debate and battle strategy. There'd also been side-debates about guest lists and attire and other party protocol but mostly, the talk had centered around the threat of reprisal from Everafters who weren't particularly enthusiastic about new leadership.

"As long as I don't _start_ a war, no one can really pin anything on me," Puck assured the rest of the Grimm family seated once again around the kitchen table, this time with Relda's old coffee pot between them. "And even if someone tried to, it'd blow over. Princes don't really have clout in military campaigns. Nobody really takes a call to arms seriously unless the King gives the order - or the Queen."

"Nobody?" Henry asked dryly. "The casualties of war certainly will."

"Unless they're dead," Puck returned. "Which, y'know, casualties usually are."

"That's why you've felt resistance to step up," Mr Canis deftly defused the petty squabble, "and it's not just that you can't declare a state of war. While you're still only Crown Prince, you can't legally claim land conquests, either. No wonder all your enemies are pushing for status quo."

"I don't know about _legally_ ," Puck clarified. "Even as Crown Prince, I can certainly lead invasions and take people's lands and kingdoms, but no one will honor the new territorial boundaries. They'll just continue living on the conquered land until the next invasion."

"But if you were King, they'd pack up and run," Jake nodded. "It's all about authority."

"And fear," Puck crossed his arms over his chest. "Let's not forget fear. Not to boast, but the King of Faerie has a wet-your-pants fearsome reputation among his enemies."

"Well, speaking of enemies, who do you think are the big players in this war?" Henry changed the subject, seeing Puck about to launch into a speech that promised to be extremely self-serving. "Mom mentioned the Northern Fae. I've never heard of them before."

Relda cleared her throat. "They were competitors for Faerie. If my history is right, they came on ships just about the time your family did, Puck, but lost out when they ran into trouble at sea."

Puck's smug grin raised a few eyebrows around the table. One by one, the others entertained the possibility that it'd been a strategic prank and not fate as they'd always assumed that had brought him into their lives.

"No comment," he said sweetly, and Daphne marveled that someone that blatantly incorrigible could look so much like an angel.

"They eventually settled elsewhere," Relda continued, "and have lived in seclusion since. But no one really knows -"

"Greenland," Puck supplied unexpectedly, and seeing everyone's expressions of surprise, qualified, "at least that's the rumor."

"Greenland?" Daphne echoed. "When you said 'northern' I thought you meant upstate. Like Buffalo or someplace."

"They wish. Last I heard, they were living in the mountains raising musk ox and gorging themselves on cod. Totally backward. No cellphone reception at all that high up. And let's not even start on the streetwear. I can't say I blame them for wanting to contest my crown - their fashion options alone are worth a war. Imagine walking around all year in nothing but fur."

"And by fur, I don't imagine you mean mink," Henry guessed.

"Caribou and dog. And seal."

"I've seen some of their outfits on the internet," Veronica added fairly, "and they're very modern. Some traditional, for the sake of tourists, but most dress like us."

Puck snorted. "The humans, maybe. Wait till you've been to Northern Fae Fashion dot com - it's pelt central, let me tell you."

"That's not a real website!" Daphne accused.

Puck ignored her. "Some of the lazier ones don't even skin the animal before wearing it. Even that cold, it'll eventually start to stink. Give me Armani anytime."

"Not everyone wears designer, hotshot," Jake sniffed. "Those of us not swimming in cash shop quite contentedly at Old Navy. Sometimes Target, too."

"If it's so risky, why not just stay the Crown Prince?" Esmerelda asked timidly. "All the big decisions can be made in your mother's name if necessary. Since she's Queen, I mean."

"The Northern Fae won't listen to her," Puck replied scornfully.

"Because she's a woman?" Veronica asked sharply.

Puck's eyes narrowed. "Because they're _stupid_. And also because Mother's losing interest in ruling. She wants to retire and travel, embrace fashion and culture, maybe chill on some beach somewhere. That's why she's left things in my hands for years now - mine and Mustardseed's. Anyway, Veronica, you of all people should know that like the King, the Queen of Faerie is a title taken very seriously. No one in their right mind would pay her anything but the utmost respect; fear preferably. All through history, our Queens have been extremely liberal in disposing of anyone in their way. Even slightly annoying people have been beheaded at their whim."

The slightly off-key strains of Joy To The World drifted into the kitchen just then as Sabrina wandered in, humming. She picked an apple from the fruit basket, claimed the empty seat beside Puck and smiled benignly around at her family.

"What're you guys talking about? Football stats?"

Daphne resisted the urge to giggle.

Puck turned his head to eye Sabrina. "Fear and trembling," he informed her seriously, "as befits the Queen of Faerie."

Sabrina threw a hand up in disgust. "This again? Didn't we talk about this to death already?"

"You did?" Henry said interestedly at the same time that Puck answered, "Not _you_ , Stinky; my _mother_."

Daphne exploded in laughter.

"I'm lost." Sabrina crunched a bite out of her apple and absently scratched her eye. "Go back to what you were saying. Don't mind me."

"Very hard not to," Jake muttered, "as we've just been warned to handle you with tongs or risk having our heads chopped off."

Sabrina blinked, shooting a confused glance at Daphne, who was wheezing helplessly into her hand.

Puck rolled his eyes. "We're talking about my coronation, Slowpoke. That, and the threat of war."

"Ah," Sabrina acknowledged thankfully. "I say carpe diem. You need to be on that throne, Puck. Not getting cold feet, I hope?"

"Pfft. These feet are gonna take the kingdom into the next millennium, babe."

Sabrina frowned at the use of the affectionate term, but her mouth was too full to fire off a reasonable protest, so she let it slide.

"But why do you need to be _King_?" Esmerelda asked again, puzzled.

"Because it's who he is," Sabrina swallowed finally and answered, wondering if Esmerelda was perhaps a bit thick. "And because when he's King, he'll be able to make changes that will help his people and other Everafters. Laws, opportunities, ways to assimilate, things like that."

"Why assimilate?"

Everyone gaped at Esmerelda. Even Daphne stopped chortling.

"Why not?" Sabrina challenged, her eyes turning to steel.

"Everafters are . . . different," Esmerelda said carefully. "We have power that in the wrong hands could be . . . misused."

"We're also isolated, lonely, misunderstood and consequently vulnerable," Sabrina countered.

"I'm not trying to pick a fight, Sabrina," Esmerelda said in a placating voice. "I'm just saying that assimilation is . . . well, there are risks. Not everyone might be ready or even open to the idea."

"Which is why it's taken this long to finally be willing to try. Nobody's saying it'll happen overnight. But if it's going to work at all, someone needs to make some laws to remove as many obstacles as possible right at the outset. You're an Everafter, and you know how hard it is to get anything done in a world that doesn't believe in you. Whose side are you on, anyway?"

"No one's," Esmerelda said, turning earnest eyes on each family member in turn. When her gaze met Jake's, she looked down at her coffee cup. "Maybe my experience with humans isn't . . ." She hesitated, then began again. "My family came to a different part of the world than yours. They settled in Europe, so long ago that I don't remember when or why they left their homeland. We didn't do too poorly, but I do remember that we've always had to hide who we are, because if the humans discovered the truth about us, they'd want to use us, hunt us for our magic. I'm just looking out for our safety. Yes, I'm an Everafter . . ." She raised her eyes to Jake's now. "And I'm not ready."

" _We're_ humans, too, Esme," Jake joined the conversation at last, "well, except Puck. In many ways, assimilation has already happened. Mom was a big part of that, and Veronica. I mean, look at _this_ , at _us_." He gestured around the table, at his family - humans drinking coffee with legends.

"I'm talking about _mortals_ ," Esmerelda pressed.

"And by mortals, you mean muggles," Daphne put in, which had the combined effect of distracting Esmerelda and making Sabrina feel the sudden urge to laugh, "you know - unmagical people."

"I'm familiar with muggles - fictitious, ignorant folks who are terrified of magic that some children's author thought to defend in the name of equality." Esmerelda's frustration was evident in her tone, but now it softened. "I read those books, too, Daphne. They were quite charming, but sadly inaccurate, don't you think? None of the characters were immortal, were they? Even the ones who died trying to be? It's always so much easier in the stories."

Daphne, somewhat subdued at having one of her favorite stories torn apart, sank back in her chair but Esmerelda hadn't finished. She turned her attention away from the young girl and toward the others in the room. "Do you know what you're asking? If Everafters assimilate with mortals, if they develop friendships, relationships, families? We're looking at a world of orphans and widows, parents burying children, generation after generation. It goes against the natural order of things, for one. And for another . . . that's a lot of goodbyes."

Esmerelda finally addressed Sabrina directly. "We didn't need anything from your world. We were fine as we were. We never _needed_ to assimilate. And -" she smiled sadly, "- some might even say that it would be kinder not to."

Once again, Sabrina blinked in uncertainty. The older woman had been very persuasive; maybe this conversation was moot from the start. Maybe Puck could indeed stay on this side of status quo - they'd continue thriving exactly where they were, out of the shadow of war and free from the messy work of trying to blend two very different communities which were likely to destroy each other anyway.

"What did your family do, Esmerelda, to make a living, to survive?" Relda ventured quietly into the ensuing lull.

"Trade. Wine. This and that. We changed with the times. Some of us were merchants. Some teachers. We were always good with languages, and history of course. The mortals benefited greatly, as we knew they would; history is full of accounts of immigrants enriching a new land with their culture and knowledge."

"Immigrants?" Puck had been silent during Esmerelda's speech but now he sat up and crossed his arms. His voice took on an edge that Sabrina knew only too well - this was the tone he used just before he issued some terrible ultimatum to whichever underling had been fool enough to challenge him. "You think we're a melting pot of _immigrants_. That we came to New York to bless the mortal city as _immigrants_."

Esmerelda's brow creased at his brusque manner. "Immigrants have always come to the cities, Puck. In any era. Cities are often the centers of influence and change. They're where the action is."

Puck stood, shaking his head. "We were never immigrants. We were _refugees._ And we'll always be refugees in this world. You can believe what you like about your family being all cozy in Europe, but all of us, every single Everafter, before coming to this world, had fled from somewhere else. _Fled_. Because it was no longer _safe_. Why else would we have left to come to _this_ \- a place that, as you said, we needed nothing from? Whom _we_ enriched, and not the other way around? Why else would we have left _home_?"

Esmerelda tried to comment, then changed her mind. Puck watched her bite her lip, watched her conflict dance across her face as if this were the first time she'd had to think about who she truly was.

"And that's why I need to be King," he finished, sounding unexpectedly regal. "Centuries ago, for whatever reason we can or can't remember, we lost our home." His gaze rested on each face around the table in turn before settling on Sabrina beside him. "It's high time we built a new one."

* * *

Daphne, for the growing up she'd accomplished since moving back to the city, still retained all the consummate idealism she'd had at the tender age of seven. Esmerelda's opinions disquieted her, as did Puck's response to them, and she resolved to take it up with him the first chance she got. One afternoon later that week, Daphne found him sitting in a tree in Relda's backyard, watching Jake teach Esmerelda what looked like self-defense moves in a clearing some distance away.

"Hey," Daphne called out, climbing up (rather inexpertly) beside him.

"Shh," Puck said, "I'm watching Jake make a fool of himself."

"Huh? He looks like he knows exactly what he's doing. Look - he got her to block him twice already."

"By totally faking. I've seen Jake fight. This isn't fighting; this is dancing. And boy is he bad at it."

"I doubt he cares; he's completely head over heels."

Puck turned to Daphne with wide eyes. "Do you know that in the last 10 minutes, he's kissed her 13 times on 13 different parts of her face? I don't know whether to take notes or vomit."

"I didn't think you needed any help with Sabrina," Daphne said slyly.

Puck's brow wrinkled in distaste. "We're not like that, Marshmallow."

"Mm-hm," Daphne didn't believe him in the slightest.

Puck ignored her.

"She's happy when she's with you, though," Daphne added.

"She tell you that?"

"No."

"Good. Because if you said yes, I'd know you were lying. She'd never admit anything like that."

 _No, she wouldn't_ , Daphne thought. Aloud, she said, "But I can see it. Everyone can see it, how you are with her, I mean."

"I'll be sure to dial it back a notch, then," Puck said with a straight face.

Daphne nudged his shoulder. "Don't give up on her, Puck. She'll get it eventually. Even if it takes you lying dead on some battlefield to get her to admit anything. Same goes for you."

Puck snorted. "Since I'm not planning to die anytime soon, I guess we're in for a long wait."

Daphne smiled to herself. For all his evasive replies, Puck hadn't outright _denied_ anything between Sabrina and himself. Satisfied, she returned her attention to her uncle and his lady love. "Why do you really think Esmerelda doesn't want Everafters and mortals to be united?" She asked as she watched Jake reposition one of Esmerelda's arms.

Puck shrugged. "Fear. Common sense. Who can say?"

"Common sense?"

Puck looked seriously at Daphne. "Esmerelda's overly clingy, way too kissy, can't dance, let alone fight, and if she bats her eyelashes any harder, she'll start a typhoon that'll take off the Old Lady's roof and probably the rest of the town. And she's way too naive about the world. But she's been an Everafter for a long time, and she's spot-on about one thing: humans _will_ take advantage of us the first chance they get."

"Excuse me?" Daphne poked him in indignation.

"Your people aren't good with power, Marshmallow. Just look in the history books. Not that I've read any."

"And yours are?" Daphne crossed her arms defensively. "What about Atticus? Mirror? Moth?"

"Oh, there are plenty of nutcases among Everafters, too, I'll be the first to admit. But see, we've always had power, always known what it can do, always known the rules -" he held out a hand to stop Daphne from interrupting "- even if some of us chose to break them. Humans, however, don't. Half of them don't even believe in magic, and the other half haven't the first clue to how to use it without killing everyone and everything for miles. Imagine what could happen to your world if humans, after comfortably assimilating with Everafters, suddenly found out about magic. Huh? Think about it. Maybe if we're lucky, they'll wipe themselves out first before they can even worse damage."

"I. . . guess," Daphne conceded, still somewhat dissatisfied. "But just because there's that risk doesn't mean you should throw out the good, too. Everafters and humans can and have lived together peacefully, and done really well. Like us."

"Do I need to remind you that you're an _Everafter_? And a Grimm? And you wield magic like a maniac."

"Thanks," Daphne said, pleased. "But we weren't Everafters when you first met us, remember? We were just regular humans. We only became Everafters later. Are you saying that if we hadn't, if Mr Canis hadn't written our names in the Book, you would've just said goodbye to us? To Sabrina?"

Puck had the grace to look pained. "I don't waste time with What Ifs, Marshmallow. And I'm not saying I don't want Everafters and humans to live peacefully together. I'm just saying Esmerelda had a point, that's all. It's why we haven't already jumped right your world, even after centuries of living right next to each other. It's always going to take work. Look how long it took your stubborn sister to come round."

"For the record, _I_ always thought it was gravy to hang with you," Daphne said with her chin in the air. She still wasn't completely won over, but Puck's approval meant the world to her, and she was willing to go with whatever plan he had up his sleeve. After all, politics weren't that different from shenanigans, and Puck had never met a shenanigan he couldn't twist around his little finger to show who's boss.

"That's because you, unlike Pigface, knew perfection when you saw it," Puck replied, grinning.

"Oh, she knew it," Daphne grinned back. "She just had trust issues."

Puck's smile softened as he remembered his black eye. "Nothing a bit of therapy couldn't solve."

* * *

The night before Daphne, Basil, Veronica and Henry headed back to the city, Daphne found herself once more in her sister's bedroom.

"It stinks that you fancy pants uni people get an extra day off before classes start up again," Daphne complained from Sabrina's bed. "Mum and Dad have to leave to drive us home, but you get to stay here an extra day with Granny. Grade school stinks."

"It's just one day, Daph," Sabrina said. "And maybe they'll cancel school with all the snow."

"As if. This is public school, in case you forgot. Plus I think we've used up all our snow days already."

"Well, we've had a fabulous Christmas, right? Everyone came. Except Red, I mean. But she had to be with family - her other family, I mean - so that's all good, too."

"And we get to meet up for the coronation," Daphne conceded.

"Yup. Last week of January. Not too far off."

"It'll be so weird seeing Puck crowned King like, a decade after he was already crowned King."

"That first time didn't really count. Standing up in a bar dressed in fancy dress and giving a speech was more like his. . . campaign, really, than anything else. A real coronation, with witnesses and delegates from other courts, and vows and stuff - he never had the chance before he left Faerie to come back here with us."

"He could've after. Like when the war was over. Why didn't he? Take back the throne, I mean?"

Sabrina shrugged. "Dunno. Resistance, maybe. Possible uprising. The fear of it, at least."

Daphne looked astonished. "Puck's never been afraid of anything."

"Yeah, no." Sabrina agreed, looking thoughtful. "I'd always wondered about that."

"You wanna know what I think?"

Sabrina raised her eyebrow in invitation, and Daphne answered, "I think he was waiting for you."

Unbelievable. _This_ again.

"I've told everyone I don't care to be Queen of Faerie," Sabrina said, exasperated. "Even if Titania doesn't want the position anymore."

Daphne threw herself onto the pillows in a show of despair. "No! You're so black-and-white! Kings don't have to be married to be kings! I meant - look, Puck is the Crown Prince. He's always known he would be King. And unless he gets assassinated or something horrible, it's pretty much a done deal. Until you came along, right? Before that, Faerie and the crown were all he knew. After that, suddenly he had options."

"Options? Like abdicating? He'd never do that!"

"He did once."

"Temporarily. We had crimes to stop and mysteries to solve. Mum and Dad were still missing, remember? Anyway, he wanted in on that life. I can't blame him - it was way more fun solving mysteries than the stuffiness of a court where you were forced into arranged marriages with murderers."

"Yes," Daphne pushed, "and after our work was done, he went off with Uncle Jake to see the world. Mind you - there were no more arranged marriages or murderers in Faerie by then. His Dad was gone and he could've done as he pleased."

"What are you saying, Daph?"

"I think he was trying to figure out who he was, who he wanted to be. And you were a big part of that."

"Uh-oh, couch session coming up. Why do you keep pushing Puck and me together?"

"Apart from the fact that I love you both and think you're being incredibly stupid?"

"Yes. And by the way, let me just say that I'm surprised that you didn't somehow cover every square inch of the ceilings with mistletoe this week."

"The thought did cross my mind, actually, but I didn't want to encourage Uncle Jake and Esmerelda. Until I met her, I didn't think it were possible to have too much PDA."

"You're clearly very sheltered," Sabrina grinned, thinking of her roommate Celine. "So, out with it: what's in it for you?"

Daphne sighed loudly. "Options."

"Again? What's with you and options?"

"Okay, look - Cindy and Tom, Uncle Jake and Briar, Dad and Goldie: what do they all have in common?"

Sabrina frowned, thinking. "They're all couples in which one of them was human and the other was an Everafter. At the time, anyway."

"Bingo. And they all bombed. Briar died. Cindy and Tom are _both_ dead -"

"Dad and Goldie are still alive," Sabrina pointed out, not following her sister's argument.

"But they're not together. None of those worked out. Because of their differences. One's mortal, the other's not."

"Um, If Briar hadn't given her life for Uncle Jake, they might be married today."

"Living where? Doing what? Uncle Jake lives life on the edge. Briar's godmothers didn't let her out of their sight because they believed she was cursed."

"What's your point, Daph?" Sabrina asked finally.

"If you and Puck work out," Daphne said each word slowly, as if trying to bribe a child to eat something nasty, "there's hope for the rest of us."

"Us? Who's us?"

"Okay, fine! Me. There's hope for _me_."

Sabrina let this sink in for a moment before leaning forward. "Are you secretly dating an Everafter, Daph?"

Daphne guffawed. "I'm in high school, sis. I'm in swim team and marching band. And I have about a million college applications to fill out. I don't have time to date. But!" Daphne swallowed, and her face suddenly reddened. "But. . . someday I'd like to, and there's a world out there that's full of possibilities and what if I meet someone I really like who just happens to be . . . different? I don't want to say no before we even start. I know there'll be all kinds of obstacles. And I know that there are a whole lot of reasons it could totally flop that have nothing to do with one of us being immortal and the other not. Or one of us being human and the other not. All I want is to be able to go for it with even the slightest chance that it could work out, because hey, my big sister and her best friend, who so happens to be a _fairy_ , totally did."

Sabrina stared at Daphne without a word.

"So yeah, I have vested interests in you guys working out. Or heck, even just agreeing to try it. Selfish, I know." Daphne said, pulling at a stray thread on the quilt on which she was lying.

"Daphne," Sabrina waited for her sister to meet her gaze, "you shouldn't need my success to find yours. You're amazing, and whoever you meet someday is real lucky to have you."

Daphne smiled. "I know. But all my life I've believed that if you can do it, so can I. No reason to stop now."

"Except when I mess up. Then don't be like me."

Daphne sat up and wagged her finger at Sabrina. "Speaking of, when you drive home with Puck day after tomorrow, don't hit him. No more fighting. Just talk. Less painful, much more satisfying. Promise?"

Sabrina nodded. "As long as you stop trying to push us together."

Daphne looked as if she were about to throw all the pillows at her sister, but Sabrina pointedly raised her voice as she continued, " _If_ we get there, we get there. But if we don't, Puck's important enough to me that I want him as a friend, too. If anyone can even be friends with the King of Faerie, I mean."

"He's going to be such a awesome King, isn't he?"

"Yes," Sabrina said, and believed it.

"So you'll try?"

Sabrina laughed at Daphne's wide eyes. She gently patted her sister's head. "In some demented way, I think we already are."

* * *

The problem with getting together for the holidays, Sabrina felt, was saying goodbye when it was all over and returning to the daily grind of school and work and the real world. Now that she was spending most of her year in college, times with family, especially in the house where she'd been reunited with hers after believing them lost, were incomparably precious. Which made the partings even more bittersweet, this time being no exception. She stood in Relda's driveway watching Daphne, Basil, Veronica and Henry drive away, determined not to give in to tears.

"I hate goodbyes myself," Puck said from behind her. "Always so ominous and pessimistic, as if people believe they'll never see each other again. And then, one blink and they'll be sending you texts from the next gas station complaining about the traffic, or claiming they forgot their underwear in the bathroom, can you pop by the post office and overnight it to them? Neverending drama. Mother was especially bad. When I was banished, she screamed herself hoarse. At least your family just waved and looked depressed."

Sabrina whirled around to glare at him, her tears mysteriously evaporating. "Really? Can you be any more tactless and unfeeling?"

Puck raised both eyebrows in what appeared to be genuine surprise. "You know you'll see them again, right? This is not like when you were a kid. The Scarlet Hand is gone, Grimm. And besides, if anyone was fool enough to hijack the car en route to the city, Marshmallow has her entire wand collection with her. Actually, I almost hope someone tries something dumb, because it'd be hilarious to watch your family flatten them."

Some of Sabrina's ire disappeared at Puck's frivolity. She turned back to watching the car disappear into the fading twilight. "Pity you're here, then, and not where you'd be able to witness any of the fun."

"Yeah," Puck grumbled, "stuck here with you an extra day. Bummer."

Sabrina was about to stamp on his foot when she felt his arms snake around her waist. Too stunned to do anything else, she let him hold her.

"What's this?" She asked cautiously, not turning around.

"A hug, stupid."

"I know that, but - never mind."

Puck felt her lean back against him, heard her sigh, and he swallowed what he'd been about to say about returning a favor.

"Thanks," Sabrina murmured simply. _For reminding me that the past is over. For stopping my mind from going to bad places. For being here._

Puck remained silent and rested his chin on her head. For a moment, each wondered if they should say something else, and Sabrina felt like she should turn around to face him, but maybe that would be awkward, or maybe it was just safer to stay where she couldn't see his expression - and any expectation she might read in it. But now there was the matter of her arms which were dangling uselessly by her sides. She imagined they must look like they were in the middle of the Heimlich maneuver.

She laughed.

"What?" Puck's voice cut through the racket she was making, and she felt his arms loosen.

"Nothing," she answered after she'd recovered. "It's just . . . this is new to me."

"Liar. You, more than anyone else, know all about hugs. In fact, I'll go as far as to say that you're a _compulsive_ hugger. Even faced with someone trying to destroy the world, for instance, you _hug_ the whacko. You just can't help yourself."

"No, silly. I meant _this_. You and me."

"Well, that's hardly new either."

She finally turned, tired of the game, tired of dancing around each other. In the past, Puck had always been the one to initiate - their first kiss, their first dance, even their first real conversation about what she'd seen in the future which had forever changed the way she looked at him - and she'd gotten used to being surprised by his forwardness. This time, she thought she should take a turn - there weren't many other firsts he hadn't already claimed, but maybe if she stood on tiptoe, wrapped her arms around his neck to haul herself up to where her mouth could take his -

"There you are!" Jake said, appearing from out of nowhere, and Sabrina heard Puck actually groan.

"Granny says it's dinner time," her uncle announced unfeelingly. "I'd say I'm sorry for making you choose between food and . . . whatever I didn't see almost happen, but that would be lying."

Puck let Sabrina go at last.

"You did that on purpose," he hissed at Jake as he stalked past the older man on his way to the house.

Jake looked apologetically at his niece. "Not to you," he said with some regret.

Then he raised his voice at Puck's departing back. "Two words, you blooming show-off: pixie. Army. Payback's a bitch, huh?"

* * *

 **A/N: So, I spent a few days in NYC this past week. Mainly to visit friends and eat myself sick, but also to just walk and feel the vibe of the city. I try to go every few years just because. The last time I was in NYC was when I was writing Brink, my first story, and it was wonderful to immerse myself in the sounds and smells and sights and even the pace at which everything happens as people walk and the subway roars and the smoke curls out from the vents and into the great blue nothingness. This trip was no different - it was fall, so there was a chill in the air but also the bright lights and the sunshine, the giant billboards on Times Square, and everyone needing to get somewhere else as they strode, almost militant, up and down the streets. The city has a pulse, friends, and as I let myself imagine Faerie hidden somewhere behind (or under) it, I could almost feel that it might be real.**

 **And Magnolia! Yes, that's real, too. It's a bakery in NYC (and a few other states), and yes, the lines are crazy-real as well. The cake is just as good as I remembered. Caramel pecan, though, is a totally made-up flavor; Magnolia doesn't actually sell it. They have a fantastic caramel cake, though, but caramel pecan is what I bake at home in my best attempt at a facsimile of it.**

 **Factoid: there is a building in NYC called the Puck Building. I kid you not. There's even a golden statue of Puck (the Shakespearean cherub, not Buckley's hottie) fronting it. I took photos. So amused. Google it if you don't believe me.**

 **But enough travelog. Let's talk about this story and where it's heading. Do you know how sometimes you're writing a story that seems to be all banter and (you hope) developing character arcs but it's somehow missing its heart? This was like that: lots of frills and ornaments but nary a soul to bare.**

 **And with fantasy (as this genre surely is), that can get really flaky. Because something so steeped in imagination and make-believe had better have a darned good soul to give it gravity. Otherwise, why read about unbelievable characters with ridiculous powers? They can never be us. We can never be them. Unless we recognize their humanity, and something about their ordinariness that could resonate with us lowly humans. Then their stories, no matter how fantastical, can be ours, too - and we might possibly care enough to want to see how it ends.**

 **So now I have my story-map! The plot has its destination and the characters have their signposts. I shall bake a cake! I shall write banter! I shall invent twists and wickedness! Onward!**

 **~qas**


	11. Chapter 11

For all the hype accompanying Jake's invitation to dinner, the actual gratification from Granny's home-cooked meal turned out to be disappointingly short-lived.

So much so that when the rest of the house had barely settled into its various degrees of slumber, two pairs of feet made their way downstairs to the kitchen. From the fridge, one pair of hands extracted what was left of the post-supper apple pie while the other pulled bags of chips from the pantry and filled glasses of milk. The owners of the appendages worked methodically and quietly, as if either unusually skilled at stealth in general, or very familiar with the pilfering of food specifically. In less than five minutes, the thieves left the way they came, expertly avoiding the creaky bottommost step, and disappeared into the shadows pooling on the landing above.

Only to reappear again in a forest under an inky sky dusted with stars, their faces illuminated by the light of a full moon as they walked down a path toward an old trampoline in a clearing. In spite of the blizzard raging outside the house, the temperature here was that of a perfect summer night.

"You got the forks, right?" Sabrina broke the silence.

"Duh." Puck held them up in disdain. "You got the laptop?"

" _And_ the charging cord. Wait . . . do you even have a power outlet in your room?"

"How else would I've been able to keep the stuff in the ice cream truck from turning to mush all these years I've been away?"

"Oh, I dunno . . . magic?"

"Like I'd use magic when I could be flagrantly wasting the limited resources of your pathetic planet."

Sabrina snorted, a tiny _I Should Know Better_ sound of all-too-familiar exasperation. By now, she'd stopped next to the trampoline and was taking in her surroundings with a quick, sweeping glance. She frowned; unless the electric company had recently begun installing power outlets on tree trunks . . .

With one hand on her hip (and the other safely cradling their loot), she turned to Puck. "So where is it? And don't say 'by the ice cream truck' because that's nowhere near the trampoline, and unless you have an extension cord longer than the Great Wall of China . . ."

"Uh . . . oops."

Sabrina silently counted to ten while reminding herself that this was the boy who not that long ago didn't even know how to use a toilet.

"Well, I guess we'll just watch the movie till the battery dies," she conceded with admirable restraint.

"Or one of us falls asleep," Puck added unhelpfully.

"Or you could ask your minions to get us one."

"Or you could ask yours."

Sabrina colored slightly. They hadn't talked about Puck's extravagant gift since Christmas Day when she'd summoned the pixies in front of her family. Still leery of commanding a fleet of finicky sprites, she hadn't used the pipe after. "About that . . ."

Puck waved dismissively as he hopped onto the trampoline with a flutter of his wings and then extended his hand to her. "So you messed up that first time and thanked them. No biggie. You'll get used to ordering them around before long."

"No. I -" Sabrina ignored his hand and hoisted herself up onto the springy mat. "Thanks, I guess. I didn't expect it, especially since we didn't agree to give each other anything for Christmas. And a whole army of pixies -"

"That was technically only a small cohort," Puck clarified, looking slightly crestfallen. "An army is much larger and would've been so much more awesome. But I didn't want to make everyone else feel inadequate, so I scaled it down."

Sabrina's eyebrows seesawed. "Thinking of others? I find that hard to believe."

"Okay, you got me. Look, the army was always the plan. Sadly, there's great demand for pixies during the holiday season - gifts aside, they're also popular for hire to ruin someone's happy solstice. This was the best I could do on such short notice. But lest you think I'm being stingy, we can always recruit more over -"

"No, no, they're fine," Sabrina quickly assured him. "Most humans give each other socks or books or a sweater or stuff like that for Christmas. Not a . . . platoon of wish-granting flying living things."

" _Cohort_ ," Puck corrected her. "And _I'm_ not human. Plus, I'm royalty and I have the coffers of Faerie at my disposal, not to mention favors owed by countless debtors foolish enough to cross me in all the centuries I've graced this universe."

He flopped down on his belly and reached for Sabrina's laptop. "So don't worry - in case you _were_ worried: I didn't have to sell my soul to get you that pipe. And you don't have to sell _yours_ to - hey, wait, did Henry give you a hard time about it?"

"No," Sabrina lay down beside him and snatched the laptop back, flipping it open to pick a movie.

"Are you sure? I saw him talking to you the other night. It looked serious."

Sabrina continued to surf the online entertainment options. "I told him I was as surprised as he and Mom were. We . . . we didn't know where that whole Queen of Faerie thing came from, is all."

Puck twisted to stare at her. "You kidding me?"

"What?"

"Okay, now you're just being coy. Which is _so_ not a good look on you."

Sabrina finally glanced away from the screen. "Puck, I'm not saying I don't _know_ what this Queen of Faerie thing means. I'm saying you can't just spring it on my family like it's a done deal. Or . . . on me, for that matter."

"It's _not_ a done deal?" His face was the picture of bewilderment.

In retrospect, Sabrina would've pointed out how, with that one question, Puck had perfectly - if unwittingly - captured the essence of who they were. His timing, however, was beyond abysmal. It was the last night of the Christmas break; they were huddled together on the trampoline, they had snacks, and they were about to spend the next two hours lost in a gloriously pointless movie before she returned to the drudgery of school. The last thing she wanted right then was an existential discussion on fate and a friendship she couldn't even figure out, let alone explain to someone who'd probably turn it into a huge joke.

Deflection, then; it'd always served her well in the past.

"Do you really want to talk about this now?" She made herself sound bored.

"Yes," Puck immediately replied, his mouth set in a hard line, and Sabrina deflated. The movie would have to wait.

"Okay," she gave in and shut the laptop. "You first. Build your case."

"Why me?"

"Um, _you_ brought it up."

"Fine." Puck took a slow, exaggerated breath, as if steeling himself for a battle, and scrutinized her like she were the enemy.

'Well?"

"I'm working on it! Don't you know anything about strategy? Okay. Look, I know I'm not King . . . yet, but soon I will be. When that happens, I want . . . I would like . . ." he rolled his eyes and inhaled deeply once more, "if I have to have a queen, I'd rather it be you than anyone else."

"I never would've have guessed," Sabrina muttered with mounting frustration. "C'mon Puck, tell me something new already."

"I don't _have_ anything new!" Puck started to unravel. "We're supposed to get married in the future! At first, I thought it was the most horrible kind of torture, but you've . . . well, you turned out to be _not_ totally horrible, so okay, now I'm in. _You_ , however, don't seem to be getting with the program!"

"Argh. Going in circles! And what exactly is this program?"

"It's . . . " Puck frowned. "We're . . . "

Sabrina took up the slack after watching Puck flounder. "So much for strategy, huh? Alright, let's recap: ten years ago, we met. Ten years ago, we absolutely hated each other's guts. We were in each other's faces all. The. Time. Couldn't even walk from our rooms to use the bathroom without bumping into each other. And we did a lot of stuff together. Like fought a war. You helped save my family. I helped save yours. Well, my mom did. You grew up for me. Fighting and kicking, may I add."

Puck smiled faintly at the memory, and Sabrina continued, "After the war, you left to see the world, and I went to school. We kept in touch - sorta. But mostly, you did your thing and I did mine, and I figured we were moving on, living the lives we were always meant to live, maybe even the lives we should've already been living if not for the barrier and the war. But out of the blue, you came back and - voila! You're in magazines, playing fancy dress, being all famous not just in your world, but mine, too. And _I_ -" she paused for effect, "- am still in school, living my normal, unfamous life. As far removed from yours as it's ever been."

She fell silent, their history hanging between them as she watched Puck process the blanks, as he tried - and once more failed - to fill them in.

"How," Sabrina prompted quietly, "did I get from _that -"_ she held out her palms as if they were the weighing pans of an imaginary scale, "- to 'I'm Going to Be Queen Of Faerie Someday'? It's a heckuva leap, Puck."

Put squeezed his eyes shut as realization hit him. "I have to _ask_ you. To _propose_." He felt like he was stuck on repeat. "Um, you know what? I thought I just did. And if you weren't hell-bent on staying in school for . . . _forever_ , I would've earlier."

Sabrina let out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. It was odd that she no longer felt bashful hearing the word or even discussing it, like it had become a thing they dealt with so often, in so many iterations, that it was like talking about the flavor of coffee to buy, or whose car to drive.

"No," she began, "well yes. . . and . . . no. That . . . comes later. And yeah, you're right, I do want to finish college, and then go to law school and . . . look - all I know is we were always fighting when we were children and somehow that changed."

" _Really._ Coulda sworn this is us _still_ fighting."

Sabrina allowed herself a few seconds to rein in the urge to smash the laptop on Puck's head. "Somehow that changed," she repeated with forced calm, "even though we were miles and years apart. Honestly, I'm still trying to figure out how that happened. So don't make it harder by missing the point. Please."

Maybe it was the _please_ that did it. Or the restraint she'd shown by not volleying the ball back into his court the way she'd done in so many of their past arguments. Or perhaps it was the look of utter loss she leveled at him when she finally asked, "When did you know? That you wanted us to be . . . like what we saw in the future?"

Because Puck instantly sobered. His brow, already furrowed in thought, crinkled even more deeply as he stared unseeingly at the mat beneath them, scratching at the fabric with a fingernail.

"When your parents woke up," he answered uncertainly, as if it had only then dawned on him. "I watched you. Before that, you were so miserable. But after, you were this completely different person. More smiley. Less angry. Kinder to Marshmallow, to everyone. Mind you, I mostly thought it was stupid - why would anyone care about their parents? Point is, suddenly I wanted to do stuff to make you happy. Just 'coz. That was when I knew. It was the single most frightening moment of my life. I've fought dragons and entire armies and I've never turned a hair, but _that_ \- that made me want to wet myself. So. . . what about you?"

Sabrina repressed her own smile at Puck's obvious distress. "There wasn't just one moment. And maybe that was why it was so hard - because I didn't see it coming. It was when you had a bath and didn't smell as bad as usual. And when you were kind about not being able to rescue my parents. And when I thought I'd never see you again. Remember that? You were King at last and you were going to stay on in Faerie and I wanted to be glad for you and I _was_ , yet it felt like I was missing an arm. Or a leg. Or some part of me that belonged."

"Sappy."

"No more than _your_ story!"

"What about my dashing good looks?"

Sabrina gawked at him, then shook her head in surrender. "A minor distraction."

"Distraction from what?"

"From the fact that you'd been growing on me like an extra appendage. Didn't you hear a word I said? Let's get this straight - when you left, I missed you but it had nothing to do with how good you looked in a suit. I missed you because you were part of my life."

"So you admit I look good in a suit."

"So do your several million fans. Why should my opinion matter?"

"Because the next time I wear one, it will be in front of a church and you're the one I want standing beside me."

"To marry you?" Sabrina tossed out in exasperation. This was getting _so_ old.

"No, to stop me from misbehaving during the sermon. What do you think?"

"With you, it's likely both."

"Right on. Aaand we're back to you being my Queen."

Sabrina rolled her eyes. And here she thought she was doing so well evading that particular discussion. "That's years down the road. The thing is, if we want any chance of that happening, we can't skip all the steps between here and there. Right now, we're just _us_ \- if we're even that yet. How about we get used to just being that for now?"

Puck considered. "Does _us_ mean no one else?"

"Well, I don't know how many people you're romancing at the moment, but I haven't dated anyone for a while." Sabrina glared at Puck. "And don't ask me why."

"Why?" He obliged, looking angelic.

"Most likely because I'm naturally antisocial," she snarled at him, annoyed at the way his mouth was curving in his trademark smirk. "But maybe, possibly, y'know, to give us a chance. Daphne's words, not mine."

"Smart kid."

"Also very pushy. So . . . are we good? Can we watch the movie now? Like sometime before the sun rises?"

Puck studied her as if devising a myriad of ways to prolong Sabrina's discomfort. Finally, he shrugged. "Only if it isn't a chick flick."

"Well, I don't care for horror."

"Action it is, then."

" _If_ there's intelligent dialog. I refuse to put up with lame dialog just for the stunts."

"You'll love this one then: villain turned superhero, talks non-stop, extremely loose morals, decent fighting skills and impossible to kill."

"Sounds suspiciously like you."

"Excuse me? I have _extraordinary_ fighting skills! And this guy wears a fancyschmancy suit so no one recognizes him and then preens in front of the camera!"

Sabrina snickered. "Like I _said_."

Then, before Puck could hijack the conversation further, she turned up the volume on the laptop. "Shush, the movie's starting. Do you wanna watch or not?"

* * *

"I can't believe the battery died just at the exciting part!" Puck whined. "All that bodycount and explosives for nothing!"

Sabrina scrubbed at her eyes. "Well, we _could_ get off the trampoline, plug the thing in and finish watching next to the ice cream truck."

"Or not. I'm too lazy to move."

"Anyway, you know how it all ends. It's always the same: the hero saves the day, gets the girl and kills the bad guys."

"Yeah," Puck fake-gagged in agreement. "They need to make one in which the villain saves the day, the girl saves herself and the heroes realize they're no longer trending."

"Um, that would be the story of _your_ life. And no one in their right mind would make a movie about that."

"Fools; it'd be a box office smash. And I'd be on every billboard in the city." He stretched and yawned. "Oh wait, I already am."

"Show-off."

"You have no idea," Puck laughed, sleep slurring his speech as he turned to wink at her.

"That salve is incredible," Sabrina pointed to his eye. "It looks good as new."

"Oh, I never used it," Puck said airily. "Healed all by myself. You don't need help with genes this good. Which reminds me: it's time for that selfie."

He pulled out his phone, shoved his head next to hers and took a picture.

"Let me see." Sabrina tried to grab his phone as he held it out of her reach and tapped on the keypad. "What are you doing? You're not drawing a mustache on me, are you?"

"Hey! Good idea!"

"Give it here!"

At last Puck finished and let Sabrina have the phone. On the screen was the image of their faces, hair splayed out around their heads. Puck had tagged it #doesntneedmakeup.

"Narcissistic much?" Sabrina wondered aloud, and Puck rolled his eyes in disbelief.

"No, dummy. I meant _you_."

And instantly, Sabrina was eleven again, lying on the trampoline with her wrist handcuffed to his as he'd said those same words.

She blinked in surprise. "You . . . remember that?"

"And it's still true." He nudged her shoulder. "What - did I strike you dumb?"

"Shut up," she sputtered, just to prove him wrong.

Puck took back the phone and typed something else before showing it to Sabrina again. The caption now read #doesntneedmakeup #partnerincrime #futuregoals.

"I'm posting it." He watched her intently. "Violent objections?"

Sabrina gaped, still trying to wrap her mind around the fact that he hadn't forgotten their conversation from more than a decade ago.

"That's tantamount to saying you're off the market," she ventured cautiously. "Like, for real. Isn't that publicity suicide for you celebrity types?"

Puck grinned like it was his favorite prank. "Then let the market mourn."

She continued staring, her lip between her teeth, wondering if this were somehow a disaster in the making.

"They'll hate me," she groaned, imagining the fallout, the social media circus she'd likely be facing for the indefinite future.

"They'll want to _be_ you," he corrected.

A thousand more considerations and arguments stampeded through Sabrina's mind before _Well, What They Hey_ won out. Still locked in his gaze, she nodded, strangely embarrassed, flushing even more deeply as Puck's smile practically split his face. It took only a tap to send the announcement to the world, after which he raised the phone over his head like a trophy.

"Shut up," she said again, as if her brain had lost its capacity for alternatives.

"Didn't say anything," he returned smugly.

Sabrina leaned into him to peer over his shoulder. "Tag me, too. If Celine hears it second-hand, she's never going to forgive me."

"Done," Puck thumbed the screen again and in Sabrina's hand, her own phone let out a quiet chirp as it registered the notification. "And now you have a photo of me on your phone, so no more excuses. Gaze and swoon all you want; I won't tell anyone. Well, that tweet's gonna hit the world in less than two seconds so unless we wanna be pinged to death, I'd say we zip our phones for the next few hours."

Sabrina retweeted Puck's message, adding #wildride #bringiton to the caption, allowed herself just a second to contemplate what she was about to do, then hit the power button.

"We're cheesier than Doritos," she said as the screen winked off.

"Tip of the iceberg, babe."

There was that nickname again. Sabrina felt a protest about to launch off her tongue when she realized that they'd just crossed a line, and on the other side of that line lay a whole lot more than just nicknames.

Then again, there'd _already_ been nicknames - rude, insulting, slanderous things they'd called each other and no one else. The truth hit her in the face like a wrecking ball: there'd never been a line. They'd blurred it years ago and danced around its murky shadows as if it were a monument to the fools they used to be.

And now, lying on that trampoline under that old, familiar sky, she wasn't sure if she should laugh or cry, or simply smash her own forehead repeatedly with the palm of her hand. Beside her, Puck, seemingly oblivious, was lying quietly with his hands behind his head, no doubt paying homage to the stars for giving him exactly what he'd always believed they'd foretold.

Sabrina chafed at the irony: for something to which the universe itself was witness, it sure felt like she was the last to have caught on.

"I guess it's out now," she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. "I still don't know what we are, but it's funny how it doesn't matter anymore."

"We're very complicated," Puck agreed. "It's what makes it fun. So . . . what's next?"

"Well, I go back to school. And you, from what I've heard, get to be King. Which we all hope the rest of the Everafter World is okay with, because otherwise, we're looking at war, right?"

"I'd rather die on the battlefield than in a classroom."

"And I'd rather you not die at all."

"Aw. Barely minutes after our happy announcement and we're getting mushy already. Control yourself, Grimm! Besides, I can take care of myself. I have for centuries, y'know - in my world _and_ yours."

Sabrina didn't respond, staring distractedly at the sky and gnawing on her lip. Puck turned, about to tease her again, when she spoke, her voice hushed.

"After the exile. . . what happened to you, y'know, before Ferryport, before you found us?"

"Adventures. Why?"

He'd said it in his usual devil-may-care manner, but Sabrina detected a guardedness beneath. The last time she'd heard it in his voice, they'd been on the banks of the Hudson River the day of his father's funeral.

"But not like the kind you and Uncle Jake had," she prompted him.

His expression clouded, his silence saying more than words might have. As he turned away, Sabrina reached over and touched the scar on the back of his neck. "Where did you get this?"

"Why d'ya wanna know?"

Just four words, but they were a wall, the barrier all over again, keeping her guessing, shutting her out. For the span of a breath, Sabrina was tempted to default to sarcasm and the off-color needling that had so easily kept them from the conversations that really mattered. Then she remembered Mustardseed's words: _he's not sure where he stands with you._

"Your eye healed within a day, even without the salve," she began carefully, hardening her heart around the wound his words had opened. " _Hours_. And you're magical, so you always heal perfectly, without a mark. But this scar - you still have it. And the other one, on your arm."

Puck's eyes narrowed, any trace of his earlier ease vanished as if it had never been. He hissed, "Is that what they teach you at school? To badger people on the witness stand?"

Even ignoring his barb, Sabrina knew she had to tread carefully. "You know where I came from, you saw what I was like straight out of the system, how hard it was for me to trust anyone. And you know me well enough now to call me out in the car yesterday, about my parents and how mad I still was. I have no secrets from you, Puck. But I . . . you . . . all I know about you is what you let me see - after you've healed over, when you're just sailing along without a care in the world. If, someday, I get to be part of Faerie, to stand beside you and all the crazy things in it, where there's a chance you could even get murdered at your own coronation, I'd like to know what I'm saying yes to. Like . . . who are you really? What's with you always laughing things off and pranking and strong-arming everybody? Why are you always on your guard, as if there's a war at your back door?"

Puck lay very still, the only movement the blinking of his lashes and the bobbing of his throat as he continued to study the constellations. Second dragged into minutes but Sabrina made herself wait. It was his move after all, the story his to offer, not hers to cajole out of him, one unwilling nugget at a time.

When at last he spoke, his voice was dead of emotion as if reciting a script only he could see. "Nothing. For years, nothing. I just . . . wandered. For centuries, Faerie was the only world I knew, ever since we stepped off that ship. So when I was cast out, I didn't know where to go, the first thing to even do. Oberon threw me out with just the clothes I was wearing. In the beginning, when I was still strong and very angry, I wanted to get as far away as possible, far away from Faerie, from Oberon, from the rules and the expectations. It was so strange, the idea of traveling anywhere, the freedom, never needing to look back. I didn't realize, of course, till after weeks, months, that it didn't matter how far I went because there was no need to turn _back_. There was nothing to return _to."_

He smiled, but the glimmer of it was anything but happiness. "And only years later that I understood that it wasn't only because I was banished."

"What -?" Sabrina's voice was a whisper.

"I didn't _miss_ it - Faerie. Not a bit."

"But . . . it was your home."

Puck's eyes abruptly clenched shut, squeezed, bracing against something. Pain, perhaps. Or - worse - the lack of it.

"Was it? I wondered at first, you know, what it'd be like to miss something. You're supposed to miss something you've lost, right? I lost Faerie, but I didn't miss it. Then I thought maybe you missed something you wish you had. But that's not missing is, it, if you've never had it? So if I wasn't missing what I'd lost, it couldn't have been home, could it? And if not, what _was_ home, and where was _mine_?"

Sabrina stayed quiet, stunned at this side of Puck she'd never seen before, afraid that if she answered, if she even breathed, she might break the spell and turn him back into the irrepressible, flighty trickster he'd been.

"Eventually," Puck continued after a moment, and his tone was once more matter-of-fact, "I stopped thinking. Pointless, you know - thinking. Much better to be _doing_. So I just kept going - wherever I heard a rumor of food, maybe shelter. It became a hunt. And that's when things got exciting. One night, I was foraging in some woods near a town - I couldn't even tell you where, all towns looked the same to me then - I was ambushed by a bunch of trappers. One of them had seen me fly, had apparently been watching me for some days. The others didn't believe him, so he caught me to prove he'd really seen a boy with wings."

" _Caught_ you?" Sabrina echoed, incredulous that anyone, let alone a human, could have gotten the better of Puck. He turned to her, misunderstanding her question, and she was astonished to see what she could've sworn was shame on his face.

"I was _starving_ , okay? Weak. It made me careless, and I . . . let my guard down."

Sabrina put her hand on his arm. "I didn't mean . . . hey, I know _that_ much about you. Please, go on."

Puck relaxed, then continued, "I'll say this much about humans - they're puny and powerless but can be very resourceful when they want to be. These guys chained my ankles to a tree so I couldn't fly away. And they starved me, then used food to make me show my wings. When that didn't work, they tortured me - sliced open my back, tossed me off high places. They did . . . other things, too. I couldn't fight back, not in that state. And I couldn't morph into anything because they'd tied me up. They finally gave up, decided I was one of those awful human experiments you guys make in a lab. After that, it was a free-for-all, just entertainment for them. They forced water down my throat, and twigs and leaves, wrapped my neck with barbed wire and strung me upside down from a tree to see how long I'd last. I put up a good fight, as you can imagine. I guess that's how I got the scar. I didn't actually take the time to look in a mirror."

"Oh, Puck." Sabrina was almost in tears.

"But that turned out to be the best thing that'd happened," Puck pressed on, sounding a little more like his old self. "Because it all started to ferment after a day or so, and there was all this gas building up inside me. I belched out a fireball, burned up the rope, cut myself down, and turned into a wolf. Then I called for reinforcements. Very effective, howling - summoned all the hungry neighbors to the party in record time. We were all ready and waiting when those guys turned up again."

"What happened then?"

"I'll spare you the grisly details. Let's just say that I made sure the rest of the pack disposed of the remains. Poor bastards never saw it coming. As far as they were concerned, it was a random animal feeding frenzy. They never guessed I was one of them." Puck paused and ground his last sentence out, "And even at the end, they never saw my wings."

Sabrina shut her eyes at his words. A part of her understood that it had been a fight for his life, but her mind still recoiled at the images it'd conjured.

"So you still won," she spoke quietly.

Puck's lip curled. "Sure - in a way. But so did they."

At Sabrina's confused frown, he explained, "Those turds took something from me. Before the exile, I'd been in fights, in wars, even been tortured, but if I couldn't bust my way out, help would come. Usually it was Mustardseed, or one of my soldiers, but there was always someone who'd hear me yelling, would know to search for me, would have my back. Those nights in the woods, I realized that for the first time in my life, no one would hear even if I screamed myself sick. And if I died on that tree, no one would come looking for me. Why would they? Who would care? No one even _knew_ I existed. I was completely alone. From then on, I couldn't ever depend on anyone; it had to be me for myself. For survival, for _everything_. Maybe that's why I still have the scar - so I wouldn't forget."

"What about your minions? Why didn't you call them?"

Puck blinked at her. "I didn't have them. We only found each other years after the exile. They live in the greenwoods. In _your_ world. I learned their language, earned their trust, did them a couple favors - like once, I did some extermination for them - particularly annoying pests that refused to leave their territory. Anyway, now they serve me and - as of tonight - they'll serve you, too."

Sabrina slowly registered all this - the idea of Puck being vulnerable, being alone, being hunted. And of the significance of his gift to her - she'd thought, as did the rest of her family, that his minions were the indentured servants of the Fae court, never realizing that neither Titania, Oberon nor Mustardseed commanded any of the little folk the way Puck did.

She slipped her fingers through his. "I'm sorry."

"What for?" Puck asked, bewildered.

"For what my people … humans did to you."

"Those were definitely not _your_ people. I've lived in your world long enough to know that humans aren't all the same; some are no different than beasts. Baser, even. Makes 'em easy to kill when they come at you."

"Did you ever feel guilty?"

"For defending myself? No."

Puck's answer had been easy, nonchalant, even. But right after he spoke, he fell into an uneasy silence.

 _There's something he's not saying_ , Sabrina thought. _He's pushing me away again. Not this time, buster._

She pushed back. "You're not like . . . that now, though."

"Aren't I?" Puck shifted himself onto his elbow, his gaze intense, challenging.

Sabrina reached for his face. " _Are_ you?"

For a long moment, there was anger in his stare, wild and desperate.

Then he leaned into her palm and closed his eyes. "You want me tame. Normal. I'm not that person, Sabrina."

"I don't want you tame, Puck. I just want _you_. _All_ of you. Bad _and_ good. No secrets. No armor."

When he didn't respond, she kissed him. On his cheek, the edge of his jaw, the corner of his mouth, and then his lips. Her heart pinched a little - a jolt that startled her, reminding her of the tacky descriptions of sparks that ignited between two people locking lips after an eternity of yearning. _This felt more like electrocution_ , she thought with amusement, _which meant we must've been pining away to almost shadows of ourselves._

Then she noticed that Puck hadn't responded, had merely remained frozen against her. She pulled back, questioning and a little hurt. For a few awkward seconds, she struggled to say something, anything, just to distract herself from the mounting panic that she'd ruined _everything_.

With his eyes still closed, he mumbled, "You did that because you feel sorry for me. Because I told you that story."

"I did that because I'm finally seeing you," Sabrina murmured, relief washing over her that he'd spoken first, that she could respond with the truth. " _Because_ you told me that story."

Puck swallowed, still refusing to look at her, so Sabrina asked quietly, "The question is, King of Faerie, do _you_ want _me_?"

At this, Puck's eyes flew open and he laughed, an incredulous chuckle that made her relive every one of the insecurities she'd spent years shooting down. But his next words held no mirth. "How can you even ask me that? Haven't I made it nauseatingly obvious?"

"Yes, but do you want me enough . . . to _stay_?"

There, she'd said it. And let her voice rise on the last word, as if it'd taken all her energy to force it out because for the longest time, she'd been terrified to even think it.

A pause. "So you _do_ want it." He sighed, understanding. "A courtship. Guarantees."

"That's not what I -"

"It's a little different in Faerie," Puck interrupted her. "In my world, a match is a match. There's no courtship or . . . friendzone. One day we're free, the next we're betrothed. Which, come to think of it, is exactly the direction my life took after your trip to the future."

Sabrina sat up fully. "Free? Is that what you think? That being together means losing your freedom?"

Puck faltered. "I - don't know. All my life I've fought it, so I figured there must be something worth defending in all of it. Maybe it _is_ freedom. Maybe it's sanity. Maybe it's my childhood. I don't know if there even is a name for it."

"Are you afraid?"

"Afraid? Me? The King of Faerie is not -!"

Sabrina stopped him mid-rant with her hand on his chest. "Well, _I_ am. Because you were right - what you said about me. I'm afraid that if you know what I'm really like, that I'm not as interesting or brave or strong as the other Faerie maidens, or the millions of fans who'd just as easily throw themselves at you, you'll leave. And I don't know which scares me more - that you've spoiled me for every other guy, or that if we're not . . . together, there isn't any other way to be in each other's lives."

" _Leave_?" Puck's brow creased in consternation. "Why you gotta make this so complicated? Look, I'll spell it out for you." He held out his fingers and began counting off on them. "Before I met you, I was eternally eleven years old. Then I met you, and now I'm mysteriously growing older alongside you. You've gone out with other human males and found them to be losers. I've had no inclination to hook up with anyone in Faerie or your world, in spite of being gloriously beautiful and receiving all kinds of propositions like you wouldn't believe. At my birthday revel, you kissed me like you meant it, and I know you knew how much I wanted you when I kissed you back. And we each know the things the other's done in our lives -" he swallowed before continuing, "- and neither of us is backing out. If this were Faerie in the old days, we'd have about a dozen offspring by now. I don't know any clearer way to say it."

"In my world, we usually default to 'I love you'," Sabrina noted dryly.

Puck ran his fingers wildly through his hair. "We don't say that in my world! We say - we say . . ."

"You say, 'Ungh! Me drag you to cave!' "

Puck's exasperation melted into a sudden smile. "Something like that."

"Well, you're going to have to get used to it." Sabrina told him. "Because somehow, against my better instincts, mind you, I think . . . I might finally be falling in love with you, Robin Goodfellow. And boy has it taken me forever to get to this point, but. . . well."

She looked helplessly at him.

"When?" Puck whispered.

"It might've been sometime between the boxing match in the blizzard and the army of personal genies -"

"Cohort," Puck corrected tiredly, but his eyes shone.

" - or maybe I've always suspected it, but anyway. . . I think I've finally figured it out."

"Yeah? Actually, how you were eating my face earlier kinda clued me in."

"Hey! You were more than welcome to participate, too! Usually, these things are a cooperative effort." Sabrina slitted her eyes at him, then groaned in frustration. "Just _once_ , y'know, it'd be nice to kiss you . . . for no reason other than I . . . want to. Not because there's mistletoe, or because you're famous or royal or on your deathbed or to break a spell or to prove anything, or - or -"

"Like how humans do it, in other words - boringly."

"Huh? I . . . guess. I . . . never thought of it that way. You know what ? Forget it. Forget I said anything."

Puck, however, pretended to consider.

"Okay," he decided, looking mischievous.

Sabrina eyed him suspiciously. "Huh?"

"I said okay."

"No violent objections?" She repeated his earlier challenge.

Puck smirked lazily at her. "To a kiss? Nope. To the fact that you even had to ask? Heck, yes."

For a moment, they regarded each other with almost-hostility.

"Well, then," Sabrina growled and fisted his shirt, "and _this_ time, kiss back."

The smirk was still on his lips when she took them with hers. For a second, it was almost as if they were eleven again, hesitant and reckless on a roundabout of firsts and whatifs and come-what-mays. Except that now there were years behind the kiss, and Sabrina closed her eyes and relished the idea of this wild boy, for all his wanderings, somehow finding his way back to her over and over again. There was that spark once more, stronger this time, and that feeling of lightheadness and floating away, but she kissed him and thought of waiting and guessing, of postcards and parcels from places she hadn't even heard of, of photos where he was a stranger and photos in which his face was a promise, of his scent and the warmth of his cheek against her hand. When she finally pulled away, it felt like free falling into a bright abyss with the wind around her heart.

Puck's eyes slowly focused on hers as he croaked, "No barfing then? Kick between the legs? Sock to the eye? Uh . . the other eye, I mean."

Sabrina could only shake her head. For years, she'd imagined this moment, and while it'd been every bit as exhilarating in reality, nothing had prepared her for the sense of abandon that had taken hold of her as she'd finally given herself to him. She might still nurse the remnants of that childhood crush, but it had nothing on the way she felt now that he was madly, deeply _hers_.

"Merry Christmas, Puck," she managed to blurt out.

Then with tremendous restraint, she rolled to the edge of the trampoline and flipped herself over the edge. Her legs crumpled under her as she landed.

 _Yikes_ , _I'm actually weak-kneed. From a kiss. I'm farther gone than I thought._

"Hey!" Puck said, sitting up abruptly and staring at her stupidly. "Where are - what's wrong with your legs?"

"Nothing," Sabrina lied, reddening.

"You can barely stand up. Wait, was that a swoon? Ha! It _was_ , wasn't it? It's about time; you've been fighting it for years. Just admit it, _cupcake_ , you totally waaant - woah, where're you going?"

"To bed. It's way past midnight." Sabrina stretched for her laptop and its various accessories.

"To bed?" Puck sounded utterly perplexed. "Where?"

"My room. Down the hall. You remember that, surely, from all the times you snuck in to prank me."

"Why?" The confusion had escalated to panic. "What's wrong with sleeping here? And don't say you're shy. When you were in Faerie, you spent two nights in my bed."

"All the more reason not to make this a third."

"Wha - but - you can't just kiss a person and walk out! Is this a breakup? Are you breaking up with me?"

Sabrina chuckled, glad for the excuse to laugh away some of the tension. "To break up, we'd have to be actually dating first, Your Royal Impatience. And _that_ we can figure out tomorrow. Or next week, or month, or whenever. And speaking of tomorrow, we need to be up early to drive back to the city. Safely. Which means that tonight, I'd like to get some sleep -" she gave him a look that set his pulse thundering in his ears, " - and you and I both know that won't happen if I stay. So . . . catch ya in the morning, Stinkpot."

Puck made several sputtering attempts at a comeback before settling on an unconvincing, "Oh, so _you_ can just up and leave me but not the other way around?"

"Not playing this game, Gashead," she responded, but less than her usual snark; even she could hear that he agreed with her. She turned and walked unsteadily away.

Puck sighed in defeat - a long, shuddering exhale - and then Sabrina heard him mumble, "Wicked. Vile and cruel and _wicked_." For an instant, she half-expected him to launch himself into an ambush the way he had in the blizzard. But there was no rush of wind, no flap of wings, only the silence of surrender underneath the night sounds of the forest.

Then she heard him guffaw, as if he'd had a sudden epiphany, and his voice rang out, "Vile and cruel and wicked. Oh, babe, you're gonna be a _perfect_ Queen."

* * *

 **A/N: Happy new year, y'alls! This chapter. I don't know what to say. It was written months ago but turned out to be one of the hardest to edit. Okay, maybe being 7K+ words long had something to do with it. But also the fact that almost all of those 7K+ words were dialog. Dialog which wasn't just banter but also trying to advance the plot and drive important character development (one hopes). So many times during the editing process I asked myself: "could this-or-that chunk of conversation show real people in real time genuinely working through not just relational issues but also personal hangups?" Because that was always something I've loved reading in books - when a chunk of words** **Says Something without actually saying it, y'know? _Especially_ when it's dialogue: all those layers - the subconscious and unconscious ones that hide under the physical words in conversations. And then we have P and S who are such multilayered characters, particularly as they get older: writing them is so, so fun (and so, so hard). But that was my goal. And that's why it took that long.**

 **Anyway, I hope you forgive me for sitting on this for yonks. Thanks for the reviews and checkings-in to see if I was still planning to continue this story. Yes, of course I am! I work a little on it every day when I have the time to. I even have later chapters written out already (some not even in sequence). But this one - this one haunted me.**

 **Moving forward now: I may disappear for a while as I build the rest of the story, but please keep writing to me and leaving reviews and comments! I love hearing from you all. See you all back here as soon as I can.**

 **~qas**


	12. Chapter 12

It was one thing to be dolled up and made to perch on a supremely uncomfortable settee in a musty historical house; to keep silent when he was dying to grill his brother was another altogether, and Mustardseed had plenty to be curious about. The very incriminating tweet with that photograph of Puck and Sabrina on Christmas Day, for one. And for another, Puck's _far_ cheerier disposition, which ever since returning from his time with the Grimms, he'd worn as a veritable glow on his face.

However - and most unfortunately - Mustardseed's own face was being turned this way and that by a photographer with clammy hands and no particular regard for efficiency. The younger prince, ever the paragon of composure and genial charm, sighed and forced himself to cooperate, if only to speed things along.

When the photographer at last stepped back and began fiddling with the settings on his camera, Mustardseed seized the day.

"So," he muttered between lips stretched in an artificial smile, "you reached an understanding."

Puck, seated beside him and savagely pulling on the laces of his shoes, said, "If he shines his damn lamp into my eyes one more time and says it's to get _reflection -"_ he spat the word, "- I swear I will smash the thing and ram the shards into _his_."

"Yes, he is rather on the amateur end of the spectrum, isn't he?" Mustardseed let his smile drop for an instant. "I thought this was Harper's Bazaar, not some tiny tabloid off the street."

"Uh, I thought _your_ lady friend was the one getting us these gigs. Did you two have a fight? Because this sure feels like revenge."

"What does?"

" _This_ \- sending an imbecile to do the photoshoot."

" _This_ wasn't her idea; Magnus was the one who pitched it to Mother."

"Who the blazes is Magnus?"

"The image consultant. I keep telling you, and you keep forgetting."

"Oh, _that_ dolt. And Mother fell for it? Why on earth? She knows better. Is she sleeping with him now or what?"

"Ugh, why is your mind constantly wallowing in filth? Look, he convinced her - _and_ me, by the way - that if we wanted to reach the masses - the common people, I mean, and not just the elite - we needed to be visible to them, too. Not everyone wears high fashion - or reads it."

"You'll be saying we need to be on the networks next," Puck grumbled. "Sitcoms. Or those horrible prime time flicks. And why not _commercials,_ while we're at it - hawking diapers and shavers and canned soup."

"Stars, Puck," Mustardseed actually shivered, "do you have to be so crass? Magnus made good sense. And why do you care who shoots us, anyway? You find them all unsatisfactory anyway."

"And the handsy ones even more unsatisfactory than the rest."

"He barely _touched_ you."

"True. It's not my face that's being mangled. Only my eyes, blinded for all eternity. Maggot sure knows how to pick 'em."

" _Magnus_ ," Mustardseed corrected tiredly. "I _just_ told you his name so I _know_ you know it. You're just being a _child_. And to be fair, his taste - in everything - has improved about a thousandfold since the first day that Mother hired him."

"Well, being threatened to be turned into a pair of shoes will do that."

"Gentlemen! Thank you for your patience! We're ready now!" The photographer's voice interrupted the brothers' caustic commentary. "Five poses, two angles each, and it's a wrap, yes?"

"Can we say no?" Puck muttered under his breath to Mustardseed.

"Don't think I didn't notice you avoiding my question," his brother hissed back. "Something must've happened on your holiday with the Grimms. Something to advance your cause, I mean."

"My cause?"

"Yes. You came home very much relieved of that scowling, restless energy with which you were abuzz prior to embarking on that excursion."

" _Abuzz? Prior?_ Why can't you speak like everyone else? It's a wonder the humans even understand you."

"Avoiding the question again."

"What question?"

Mustardseed sighed in exasperation and painstakingly enunciated his next words, "The tweet. The photo of you and Sabrina Grimm, with that saccharine caption."

"That's none of your business."

"Social media is everyone's business. Did you not see the headlines? You broke about a million hearts with that one tweet alone."

"Only a million? Please, give me due credit."

"Fine: should we be expecting a wedding to follow the coronation, then?"

"Isn't that a bit premature given that the universe is still in mourning?"

"I'm serious, Puck. Am I to believe that you and Sabrina Grimm have finally -"

"Gentlemen!" The photographer frowned at them. "Do you need a minute?"

Mustardseed gritted his teeth at the human's appalling timing, then beamed gloriously in an attempt at reassurance. "My apologies," he soothed, "you have my full attention henceforth."

Puck rolled his eyes. Under his breath, he muttered, "Your apologies are _exactly_ why idiots like him think they can manhandle our faces. If I had my way, they'd be groveling on the ground while we sat on anything we wanted and posed whichever way we liked. The universe is going to worship us regardless, and the sooner these losers realize that it has nothing to do with their angles or lights or skill which, incidentally, I haven't seen _any_ evidence of, the better."

Mustardseed released a laugh that was only part pretense, and the photographer began clicking away in rapture.

"Well, then, you arrogant twit, let's not keep the universe waiting," he told Puck. "Shut up and smile."

"Only because you asked so nicely," Puck purred back, and turned on the grin that had launched him into the upper echelons of mortal fame - and onto the bedroom walls of the besotted millions whose hearts he had so recently shattered.

"And get Magnus' input on the wedding gown," Mustardseed advised as he coaxed his face into its own swoon-inducing brand of calisthenics. "He really does have a good eye."

Puck cocked his head quizzically. "Who's Magnus again?"

* * *

Celine was beside herself with envy. Also, glee that was but a frothing mouth away from mania.

"What. Did. You. Do."

"Nothing compared to some of the things you've done," Sabrina answered smoothly.

"Nonononono, stop avoiding. The things _I've_ done were with people who weren't insanely gorgeous, so they don't count!"

"That's very shallow, Celine, even for you."

"Yes! I _am_ shallow! I am so shallow that I subsist on the details of other people's much more interesting encounters for my happiness. 'Brina, come _on_."

"Celine, stop." Sabrina turned to her roommate and squeezed her shoulders. "Breathe. Breathe. Nothing scandalous happened. We talked. We reached an understanding. We're going to be okay."

" _More than_ okay! That tweet! That photo! Have you _seen_ the comments? Do you -"

"No. I'm staying off social media for a while." Sabrina firmly cut her off. "I know he's famous and all, but he's always been just Puck to me - smelly, rude, slightly inappropriate at all the wrong moments . . . like those boys you can't really stand because they're so obnoxious, and then one day you realize they're not so bad."

"Puck." Celine's eyes glazed over. "Personal nickname and everything. And anyway, I don't know any boys like that. All the boys I've known never got past the obnoxious stage."

"This one's not that far past it, either."

"Are you kidding me? 'Brina, how can you talk like he's on the same level as . . . as . . . Chris! Or Joe! Or - or -"

Sabrina scrubbed at her face. "I'm getting serious middle school vibes here. Cel, we're not teenagers. We're adults. We're in college. Chris and Joe are perfectly decent guys. A bit over-enthusiastic, true, but good people. Easy to talk to. Not entirely hideous, either."

"Not good kissers, though," Celine admitted sorrowfully.

"Considering that your sample pool includes inanimate objects, your kissing record doesn't exactly suggest discernment," Sabrina pointed out.

Celine scowled.

"I was stoned," she grumbled, then glared at Sabrina as if it were her fault. "And I was _definitely_ out of middle school by then."

Sabrina sighed. "Celine. Celine. Look at me. This is getting nowhere. I swear, the entire weekend was fraught enough without adding sleazy moves and other things we'd have regretted the morning after. We fought, we made up, we admitted that there's a bit of a gap between where we've been and where we assumed we'd end up in the future. We're going to try and bridge that gap. Slowly, and with as little drama as possible, preferably. In our own ways, both of us are new to this, and being together is just one part of our very busy lives, okay?"

"Did you kiss him at least?" Celine recovered hopefully. "If you didn't, I'll never -"

"Yes," Sabrina huffed out, rolling her eyes when Celine pumped her fist in the air. "But it isn't the first time, as you already know."

"And is he a good kisser? I bet he is. And if you get all negatory, I'll say you're lying."

Sabrina couldn't stop herself reddening. "I've kissed worse." She grinned suddenly. "For reasons you wouldn't believe."

Celine threw herself backward on Sabrina's bed and exhaled noisily. "I bet he's a great dancer, too. I hate you, you know. When he shows up at the Winter Social and makes all the other guys look like morons on five left feet, you have to let me dance with him. Just once!"

Sabrina, all prepared to chastise Celine once more, suddenly blinked, freezing where she stood before her mirror, hairbrush paused mid-downstroke. In the reflection, her eyes were haunted.

"Winter Social?"

Celine began a series of scissor kicks in the air as she continued, "Last Saturday of January. Please don't tell me you forgot. I know you hate parties and all, but you must have this one on your calendar, surely."

 _Last Saturday in January. Puck's coronation. Dang._

"And . . . we have to have dates?"

"Only if you don't want to look like a loser, duh. I'm going with Sam. Remember Sam? Pol. Science major? The funny one? Not to mention cute like . . . I mean, cute is relative and all, especially if we stand him next to _Robin_ -"

"I remember Sam, but only because you've talked about him non-stop and not because I've actually met him. Yet."

"So come, and you'll get to! And bring Mr. Sizzlinghot so I can meet him too. Again." Celine sighed, completely dismissing the fact that the last time she'd met Puck, she'd been a complete wreck.

"Um." Sabrina winced. "Hypothetically speaking . . . there isn't any way I can get out of it, is there?"

"No! Unless you want to be blacklisted as too hoity-toity to rub shoulders with future colleagues. It's a networking dream come true!"

"Excuse me? That's stretching it - nobody actually networks at socials; they just hang out. You of all people should know, having gone to every single one since I can't remember when."

Celine sighed. "Of course I know what socials are. _You_ , however, don't. Networking is how I had to pitch it to you so you would at least think about it. Anyway, you promised."

So she had. At the beginning of the school year when her life had looked like the yellow brick road to imminent graduation and _becoming_ , with nary a side path to distract her. And there was also her friendship with her roommate, the girl code of solidarity.

"We all thought Jonas might finally wear you down, but it looks like he's out of the game now. You know, since your heart's apparently chain-locked to someone else from way back in kindergarten. Who's stinking hot. And filthy rich." Celine was rambling again but Sabrina hardly heard her as she sagged and banged her forehead against the mirror. She could easily drag a willing human boy to the Winter Social, but Puck would never forgive her for missing his coronation. Unless she could somehow manage to get him to postpone it?

She imagined her opening line.

 _Hey, Stinker, wanna ditch the one event you've waited centuries for to stand around in a school hall and make small talk with clueless humans?_

Yeah, right.

* * *

The last week of January came on the tail of another eastern blizzard, one even fiercer than the storm that had graced their Christmas break, but - thankfully - with far less stamina. By the weekend of Puck's coronation, it had tapered out to gentle flurries, leaving in its wake a good foot and a half of snow on the ground and trees bent over with ice. The city looked like a crystal landscape, Sabrina thought as she and her family tromped through Central Park to the entrance of Puck's kingdom. No one paid them any heed; among the ice skaters on the frozen ponds and the cross-country skiers pounding their poles over the fields, they were just another family taking a walk through nature on a quiet midwinter morning.

Inside the warm anterooms where visitors to Faerie were received, they shook off their coats and dutifully trailed the fairy-in-waiting who had been sent to meet them. Veronica, Henry, Relda and Canis were dressed in their formal best but Sabrina and Daphne looked acutely out of place in jeans and sweaters. Daphne, being at the awkward age when she felt too old for prickly department store frocks and too young for elegant evening wear, had begged assistance from Magnus, whom she'd never actually met but had already secretly decided was her fashion soulmate of sorts. Sabrina, being obliged to approach the image consultant on Daphne's behalf, had wondered if it might not be a terrible idea to add herself to his debt. After all, there was no point hiding the fact that she had neither the eye nor the interest for dolling herself up even if the occasion called for it. It had taken just that one photo of herself in the company of Faerie's crown prince and Magnus had of his own accord sent her an extravagant outfit more befitting her position as His Majesty's plus-one.

An outfit which Sabrina had worn as often as she could thereafter because it was not only gorgeous but exactly what she'd have picked out for herself had she the means and inclination for shopping (which she hadn't).

Since then, Magnus's fashion sensibilities had earned her grudging respect. And Magnus, for his part, had been almost gracious in Sabrina's presence. She suspected it was largely because she was one of the few people in Faerie who hadn't threatened to have him flayed.

And so, faced with the question of what to wear at the coronation of the Fae King (black gown? Satin frock? Rose petals and spider silk?), she'd dialed Magnus' number and asked, with as much dignity as she could muster, if he might suggest a suitable dress.

"I don't want to look like I'm cosplaying Lord of The Rings, though," she'd clarified. "You know, like I'm living in the trees with silver hair and brooches and . . . stuff."

There'd been a pause and then Magnus's voice had come back sounding like he was trying very hard not to sneer. "Those are _elves_ , Ms. Grimm. The Fae are an entirely different race."

Sabrina had shifted on her feet uncomfortably (not that Magnus could see it). "Yeah, well, you both have pointy ears."

"And yet not all pointy-eared creatures prance around in chiffon and organza and shoot arrows in the greenwood."

"I guess not. My bad. Sorry."

Magnus had sighed, pacified by her admission of ignorance. If only all his clients were as servile.

"What do you have in mind, Ms. Grimm?"

"Um, Sabrina's fine, please. And I don't . . . See, I usually like jeans. But I don't suppose jeans would be appropriate for a coronation . . .? Just . . . please don't make me look like a fairy princess."

"That would be impossible. Your human bone structure will never pass for that of a Fae princess. But don't worry, we can still have you looking quite presentable."

For some reason, the idea of falling short of Fae-princess-perfection had rankled Sabrina. "I don't . . . couldn't you make me look a little more than presentable? I mean -"

Magnus had made a noise of understanding. "You want something that will make the King of Faerie unable to take his eyes off you."

Now where had that come from? Sabrina had pulled the phone away from her face and stared at it as if it were something foul.

"Not that he needs any encouragement. He has enough difficulty focusing on official matters as it is." Oblivious, Magnus had continued talking, and Sabrina had hurriedly slammed the phone back against her ear to respond.

"No, well, see, I've sorta double-booked myself. There's this social at my college in the evening, well . . . it's a formal, really . . . actually, I'm not sure what the dress code is. Anyway, I'm planning to head over right after the coronation and I'd rather not be in some slinky skin-tight thing, or - worse - a huge skirt and train that everyone has to avoid stepping on. I was hoping you'd have something that might work for both, but maybe there's no such thing and I just have to -"

"Ah." Magnus had interrupted her rambling. "Why do they all assume I'm incompetent? Say no more. I have just the dress. Elegant, clean lines, as far from froufrou as you'd hope."

"Oh, that's . . . great! Um, I can text you my measurements if - um, wait, you already know my dress size."

"It's my job to," Magnus had assured her, and Sabrina had imagined him rolling his eyes. "Just relax, Ms. Grimm. And if you have the time, I'd recommend a haircut before the event but no sooner than one week, to allow the follicles to relax and adjust to their most natural elevation. Hot oil, too, if you can afford it; does wonders for sheen. Also, please discourage your sister against the combination of drug store box dyes and curling irons, unless she wishes to look like a transplant from the eighties that got stuck in an electric socket. If she is so set on tendrils, which don't soften one's facial features as much as the media claims, incidentally -" Magnus had sighed dramatically, "- I can have a stylist provide some assistance on the day itself. And for the love of Aine, don't even think of going on a diet - either of you. Clothes drape so much better on curves than angles, so eat. Your. Carbs."

"Uh . . . okay," Sabrina had gulped, and just stopped herself adding, "Sir".

Magnus' only response before he ended the call had been a tired, " _Centuries_ in the world of haute couture and I'm doling out teenage fashion advice now. No one will ever take me seriously again. I might as well start wearing harem pants and a mullet."

* * *

Thousands of miles away, in the heart of a mountain, firelight burned on the hearth of a stone cavern. Hewn out of the mountain itself, the craggy walls stretched toward a ceiling six men high. Pelts and tapestries hung on the walls in no discernible arrangement -intricately-crafted fabrics interspersed among the furry browns and whites - except where the hearth swept into an inglenook. Framing the massive fireplace were rough-cut stone seats draped with more pelts and strewn about with cushions that attempted to look welcoming nestled against cold grey rock. The room itself was bright enough from the flames but from a hook in the rough ceiling hung a chandelier of glass globes, each filled with the same firelight, like the exoskeleton of a cluster of burning vine fruit.

At the very center of the room stood a throne of dark wood, its seat and high backrest lined with fur. Around its base, four mismatched cats curled on woven rugs, motionless save for the occasional twitch of an ear or tail as they slept. On the throne sat a woman, although she was so swathed in layers of yet more fur that it was difficult to discern if she were humanoid under them, or some mythological beast wearing the face of a goddess. On her lap was a fifth cat - a long-hair calico with golden eyes. With one hand, she stroked the calico, breaking rhythm only to absently scratch behind its ears. In her other hand was a cellphone, the modern gadget completely out of place in the otherwise rustic surroundings.

For a long time, she simply sat, lost in her thoughts, her fingers stroking, stroking.

Then the cellphone rang, and her fingers tightened around it as she brought it to her ear.

"I grow weary of waiting, Einar." Her voice had an edge of steel. "What news?"

The caller answered, and the woman was quiet once more as she listened, but her eyes glittered.

"Coronation?" She sucked in a breath as her fingers ceased in their ministrations on the cat. Both speakers fell silent and the stillness in the room enveloped her, swallowed the significance of that single word.

Finally, she shifted, as though slowly waking, and continued, "At last. This is a good time to show our hand. You will do as we -"

She frowned as the caller hijacked the conversation, and the cat mewled in protest, pushing its head into her hand. The woman resumed her hypnotic stroking, and the creature relaxed once more.

"You are certain she will be there?" She asked with a shrewd look. "No, I must say I'm _enjoying_ the irony. When . . . what is the - stop! Explain yourself, Einar."

Einar clearly did, because her face opened and she smiled with pressed lips.

"Yes, that _is_ a better plan. Proceed, then, and do not fail me."

Whatever else Einar might have wanted to convey was cut off as she disconnected the call with a flick of her thumb. The woman inclined her head at the cat nestled in the folds of her skirt.

"Well, Nalena," she murmured, "how would you like to live in a place where the sun is warm and lives in the sky most of the day? Wouldn't that be paradise?"

Nalena blinked disinterestedly at her. After all, the cat had never known any other kind of sun than what it'd been born to, and couldn't fathom - or desire - otherwise.

The woman, on the other hand, who had known _many_ suns in her long, persecuted life, could - and did.

* * *

 **A/N: New chapter :) Hope you enjoyed. Thank you for all the reviews, friends - I appreciate them so much. Things have been hard at home for me of late, and thinking through the themes of this story, and then writing bits of it have been cathartic. I will respond to all your comments a little later, when I'm in a better place emotionally, so thanks for being patient with me. Have a fab summer (or winter, if you're down south).**

 **~qas**


	13. Chapter 13

In the Executive Office, the two princes of Faerie sat at opposite ends of the mahogany table and watched their mother stare at the tapestry on the wall. Her face was as still as it was beautiful but those who knew her well - as the brothers did - knew that under the surface brewed a storm of emotions. She shifted, her back now to her sons, and let her eyes roam over the motifs and textures in the fabric, abruptly flitting back to a spot in the corner before resuming their journey toward the next intricate spiral. She repeated this pattern several times: backtracking, then systematically tracing the rest of the design; it was almost as if she were memorizing it.

"Take a picture, Mother," Puck said softly.

The Queen turned, her expression uncommonly open, almost - if one might imagine associating such a quality with her - vulnerable.

Puck offered his phone meaningfully.

She returned her gaze to the wall. "It will _not_ do it justice."

"Maybe not," her older son cajoled, "but it's something, at least. Here, I'll do it."

Titania looked as if she would protest, then obligingly stepped aside.

"With you _in_ it," Puck vigorously waved her back into the frame of his viewing screen.

"This is not a tourist attraction," she said archly, not budging.

"That it isn't, but your dress goes so well with it," he coaxed, smiling - Titania thought - as if he were still her little boy playing one parent against the other.

Which, in a sense, he still was.

Titania shook her head in surrender and inched closer to the tapestry.

"Take another," she requested after Puck had snapped the picture, "just the tapestry this time. As it is. Before -"

She left her sentence unfinished, turning her back once more on her sons and running her fingertips gently - almost tenderly - over the surface of the fabric.

Puck waited patiently until she dropped her hands and moved away, then took a few more photographs. Mustardseed's phone chose that moment to chime. The younger prince had been somewhat disengaged from the conversation, his fingers fiddling absently with his touch screen, and now he sat up, read the incoming message, and rose to his feet.

"Excuse me - I have to meet an important guest," he said, and Puck's eyebrow rose at the barely concealed excitement in his voice. But before he could press his brother further, Mustardseed had exited the room.

"I wasn't aware that the receiving staff had the day off," Titania remarked. "On your coronation day, no less."

"They don't," Puck murmured in wonder. "Whoever that is must be some bigshot to've earned a personal welcome from Mustardseed, suck-up that he is."

"Don't be rude, Puck. Your brother is simply being a gracious host. Which _you_ could -"

Puck was halfway through his snort when the door opened once more. Titania frowned, not appreciating yet another interruption just minutes before the start of the ceremony. Her face smoothed, however, when she saw that it was only Mustardseed.

"That was quick," Puck said. "He must not be as important as you thought, huh?"

Mustardseed's demeanor had changed completely. No longer distracted, he was now beaming from ear to ear. Puck was immediately suspicious - it was true that Mustardseed was the more genial of the two princes, but his had always been a controlled, sanguine pleasantness; Puck couldn't remember the last time he'd seen his brother truly smile for sheer happiness - let alone beam - not since he'd been a boy allowed to have a favorite playmate come visit.

Oblivious to his brother's unease, from behind the door Mustardseed drew someone forward.

"Mother, Puck," he said solemnly, presenting his guest to his family, "I'd like you to meet Katherine."

* * *

" _Red_?" Sabrina gasped.

"Garnet," Magnus corrected. "Scarlet is far too theatrical; jewel tones are more suited for the company of royalty. Besides, the word around town is your penchant for getting into fights. Ergo, garnet: perfect camouflage for bloodstains."

Magnus circled her once to check the fit of the dress. The image consultant had chosen a clean silhouette as he'd promised, but the details were stunning: a fitted asymmetrical bodice with a lattice of pin tucks relaxing into pleats that fell in an intricate column from her waist to the floor. From her right shoulder, subtle gold embroidery trailed over her chest and snaked under her left arm.

"Wow," Daphne said, but Magnus evidently didn't share her sentiment because he frowned, his eyes drifting downward to where the hem sat in an untidy puddle.

"Shoes," he said in an accusing voice and held out a pair of gold heeled sandals.

Sheepishly, Sabrina bent, removed her riding boots and replaced them with the sandals. Immediately, she stood taller and the skirt that had pooled around her feet earlier now barely kissed the carpet, flowing easily around her legs as she moved. Magnus next produced earrings and a simple locket on a chain and after Sabrina had added these, he stepped back to study the full effect.

" _Now_ , wow," he nodded, and allowed himself a sideways smile. "Amazing what can be achieved with appropriate footwear." He grasped her shoulders and pulled them out of her hunch. " _And_ good posture. You look like a queen."

At Sabrina's raised eyebrow, he blinked. "Figure of speech."

He turned next to Daphne. "Now, you. I've heard that you used to love dressing up as a princess?"

Daphne's eyes widened as Magnus held up the dress he'd picked for her: deep blue and threaded with silver and sky all through the full skirt that draped like a dream. Even on the hanger, she was instantly besotted.

" _Still_ love," Daphne whispered in near-reverence, and when Magnus handed her the matching slippers, she threw her arms around his neck.

"My wand couldn't even make something like this," she told Sabrina over his shoulder.

"I should think not," Magnus remarked loftily as he disentangled himself from Daphne. "That said, rather than all this pointless entwining, shall we actually put these fabulous outfits to good use?"

Still radiant, Daphne retreated. "Yes. Let's not keep the King waiting."

"Or his terrifying mother," Magnus added.

* * *

For the second time that she'd seen it, the Great Hall was a riot of color. Gone, however, were the bright and pastel party fare in favor of a more subdued, deeper-hued palette. As Magnus had predicted, it was like looking at a sea of gems in a jeweler's display: skirts in rich tones cascaded and swirled among the dark suits worn by the stately male guests. And what suits! Sabrina might not have cared much for fashion, but even she could tell that these were designed by the class acts of the fashion world. Her appreciation for Magnus increased tenfold.

"I'm really glad we didn't buy our dresses off Partygowns dot com," she whispered to Daphne, who nodded fervently.

"I'm kinda surprised that everyone looks so . . . modern. I was expecting fairy gowns and lots of garlands, but this is more . . . red carpet."

"Well, if Magnus was on the organizing committee, it was bound to look like a white tie gala."

"Magnus is officially my BFF." Daphne sighed, twirling. "Look at this dress, Sis. Do I care that I'm no longer twelve? No, I do not. I'm happy to be a princess all the days of my life. Oh, there's Mom! Let's go show her!"

As they were making their way through the throng, a voice rang through the hall. "All hail Her Excellency Queen Titania!"

The chatter immediately ceased as Titania entered and ascended the dais in the middle of the room.

"All hail Prince Mustardseed!"

Mustardseed strode in next, casually smiling at the guests, who began to twitter again. Daphne repressed a giggle - he looked as if he were at a press event, playing nice for the cameras. Everyone watched him come to a stop next to his mother.

"His Majesty, the Crown Prince of Faerie!"

A collective hush fell over the crowd and Daphne nudged Sabrina. " _Just_ 'Crown Prince'? What - like he hasn't got a name, too? Unfair."

"Shhh," Sabrina quieted her sister as Puck finally came into sight.

The strangest mix of emotions washed over her.

The last time he'd been presented to his people, he'd been a child floundering comically in an oversize costume as he struggled to hold both the respect of his audience and the shreds of the kingdom his father had left him. Now he drew the attention of every eye in the room as he walked straight and tall in a perfectly-fitted navy suit, silver tie and leather shoes, on his way through the room toward the dais to take his place between his brother and mother. Under the lights, his head glowed golden, every hair in place, his eyes glinting as he looked out at the crowd. Less fairytale legend than Wall Street executive, he looked just like the photos in the magazines - expertly styled, effortlessly poised and heart-stoppingly gorgeous.

And almost unrecognizable to the part of her that still remembered the boy he used to be.

"Everafters -" Puck's voice boomed out across the room, "- and friends." He paused, his eyes searching the faces and finding her family, clustered around a small table. He frowned slightly when he didn't find Sabrina and Daphne among them, then seemed to gather himself again. "Tradition would have us use the ancient tongue but these are not the old lands, and today we will speak the language of our hosts. I stand here and make known my intention to take my father's rightful place as King of Faerie, to lead you in might and wisdom, in fairness and strength. Ten years ago, when my father passed beyond this world, I chose not to take the throne and to instead live among the mortals. For centuries, we have lived apart from the mortal world, even fearing them, but during my exile, when I was a stranger to my own people, it was mortals that took me in and showed me that one might find friends in the most unexpected places. Their wars became mine, and I stayed to fight alongside them. But those wars are ended now, so I return to what is _also_ mine - not just the crown, but my duty, my land and my people."

"He's good," Daphne mumbled, "but I keep waiting for him to pull a giant prank on everyone."

Sabrina could only nod in unwilling awe as she watched Puck scan the crowd. He still hadn't spotted them.

Mustardseed now stepped forward.

"At every coronation in our long history," he spoke, "we welcome delegates from all the courts, as well as ambassadors from the outlying provinces and other witnesses from among our allies. These we seat according to their power, rank and districts in a demonstration of the honor in which our king holds theirs. Over the centuries, however, this kingdom - this Faerie as we know it today - is different. We are ourselves sojourners in a country that is not ours, and none is above another. If you have been surprised that you were free to mingle, to stand and sit where you will, to visit with friends old and new, this is the reason. Faerie is blessed to count you as allies, neighbors, friends and family. You are all welcome, and we are all equal. Today we celebrate the new King and together we give thanks for our past and declare hope for our future. Please be seated. Our royal priestess will conduct the ceremony."

Murmuring in wonder and surprise, the crowd shuffled toward the clusters of plush chairs which ringed the dais. When they had settled themselves, an old, bent fairy dressed entirely in silver, stepped forward. Behind her, two servants hovered in the air; from between their hands a very old tapestry almost as tall as the walls of the Great Hall itself hung down to the floor.

The priestess spoke unintelligible words which Mustardseed translated into more rhetoric on tradition and honor and magic, gesturing at the tapestry and reeling off what sounded like a list of names, among which Sabrina and Daphne recognized only Oberon. They listened politely but it was all somewhat dull. Finally, the priestess seemed to have run out of things to say, and produced a short sword, which she laid across Puck's outstretched arms. She then beckoned to a third servant holding an ornate pot, into which she dipped her hands and slathered the contents onto Puck's upturned palms.

Puck turned to the watching gathering and announced cryptically, "The Rite of One."

The crowd stilled to an almost eerie quiet.

"What's the Rite of One?" Sabrina wondered aloud; beside her, Daphne shrugged, equally confused.

Without further preamble, Puck gripped the sword with one hand, wrapped his other around its naked blade and pulled it through. By the time the sisters had grasped what was happening, he had switched the blade to the other hand and repeated the procedure before handing the sword back to the priestess. His hands, upon releasing the weapon, were covered in red.

With his own blood dripping down into the sleeves of his suit and onto the floor, he walked to the tapestry and laid his palms on the ornate fabric. Then he closed his eyes and exhaled, the sound easily audible in the silence of the room. Sabrina initially wondered if the tapestry were somehow a very elaborate hand towel but then something began to happen.

Patterns of silver began trailing and snaking throughout the tapestry, radiating outward from Puck's bloody hands. It took mere seconds, but when Puck stepped away, the girls could see that the tapestry had changed. A new design had been added to the underlying one, altering the scene completely.

More servants stepped forward, producing strips of linen with which they proceeded to wrap Puck's still-bleeding hands. Even after they had finished, red was still leaking through the white fabric.

"But he's still bleeding!" Sabrina exclaimed, unable to restrain herself.

"And will continue to bleed for some time," they heard a new voice behind them, and whirled around to see Magnus, who had probably been watching the proceedings close by. "It is the effect of that salve the priestess applied to his hands to keep his wounds open."

"Why would anyone want to keep their wounds open?" Sabrina gasped in outrage.

"Because the Fae heal very quickly from their injuries, and the King's blood needs to flow long enough to perform the Rite of One."

"Yeah, this crazy rite. What was that all about?" Daphne asked.

"That -" Magnus gestured to the wall of fabric still borne aloft by the floating servants, "- is one of our most ancient tapestries. It has been part of our heritage forever. It is a record, if you will, of all the Kings who have ever been. Each new King at his coronation adds his blood to it, and the pattern changes, incorporates his vision, his hopes and ideas for the kingdom. The King, of course, will be vulnerable for some time after - he will not be able to use his hands, for one, and the act drains him of some of his power. By tomorrow he will have recovered, but in the meantime, he depends on his people to protect him. It is an act of faith and trust to be at the mercy of his court this way, and a time of bonding between the people and their new King."

Sabrina processed this in silence, her thoughts tumbling over themselves: Puck as a boy defying his father, Puck holding on to his childhood, Puck lost in the forest, hunted and vulnerable, Puck choosing to leave everything in his world - the power he craved and the people he clearly loved - to avoid being forced into a marriage he didn't want. And Puck as he stood before them now, all grown up, back where it had all started, about to claim what had always been his.

And looking like he were about to be sick to his stomach.

Maybe it was the blood loss, Sabrina reasoned. Or the debilitation from exuding all that power, as Magnus had explained.

Once more, Puck's gaze swept over the faces before him and this time it caught on Daphne and Sabrina. Slowly, he winked, but just as quickly, it was over, and the priestess was ushering him to the throne and guiding him through his vows. Then a gold circlet was set on his curls, and the hush that had fallen on the room at the sight exploded into cheers. Over the noise, Mustardseed's voice was raised, directing the witnesses to hail the King of Faerie, and the people were responding in an impassioned chant. All while Puck sat with white bundles for hands upon the carved armrests of his throne, watching and smiling.

But Sabrina knew that smile. It was the one he used when he was hiding something. Something had happened. Was it war? Had there already been a threat, mere minutes after being crowned?

Now Puck was rising again, speaking urgently to Mustardseed, and both brothers descended the dais and disappeared into the crowd below. Sabrina craned her neck, determined to keep him in sight, but the people were flowing around them.

From the depths of her evening purse, her phone rang, a tinny noise conspicuously at odds with the other ambient people-sounds.

"Hello?" She slammed it to her ear, hoping to avoid the disapproving stares she probably deserved.

"Grimm. Where are you? There's someone you need to see. Meet me by the windows."

Puck, newly-crowned King of Faerie, was calling her on his cellphone. She would've laughed at the irony but for the urgency in his tone.

"Okay. Is everything alright?"

"Just peachy. Except for my hands which look like hams. No fingers. No thumbs. Basically, I can't text. Had to use voice-dial. So primitive."

He didn't fool her for an instant. He sounded forced, like he was explaining a joke no one got. He also sounded like it hurt - a lot.

Sabrina and Daphne pushed through the crowd to the huge windows, where they heard Puck's voice greeting his guests. Upon seeing her, he marched to her side and leaned in. She caught a whiff of something that smelled very nice - probably some cologne Magnus had insisted Puck wear - and then he said unexpectedly, "Try not to react."

Sabrina frowned, completely befuddled - and then she noticed Mustardseed, his face glowing. Beside him, with a hand on his arm, stood a woman who looked about eighty.

"Sabrina and Daphne Grimm," Mustardseed said with undisguised pride, "may I present Katherine Crenshaw."

The old lady smiled, and wrinkles spiderwebbed from the corners of her eyes.

"Kate, please," she said to them, then turned slightly to Mustardseed. "You're always so formal, dear."

She returned her attention to Sabrina and Daphne. "It's wonderful to finally meet you. Mustardseed has told me so much about you. I have great admiration for your family and their legacy. I once photographed three generations of Grimms in West Berlin. This was just before the wall fell, you know. Although these were the heirs of Wilhelm, not Jacob from whom _you_ are descended, if my memory serves me well."

"Photographed?" Sabrina ventured.

"Before I retired, I was a photojournalist. That was how we met - M and I, I mean."

Kate had said "M" like a contraction of something distinguished: "Emmett", perhaps, or "Emery"; even "Eminent". It was endearing, Sabrina thought.

Mustardseed elaborated, "Sixty five years ago. She was just twenty then, working for National Geographic and unbelievably talented and driven. I had - oh -" he suddenly flushed and looked horrified, "Forgive me, love. I've done the unthinkable and revealed the years -"

Kate laughed and leaned into him. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm eighty-five. And I'm walking, although with a smidgen of arthritis in this knee -" she pointed to her left kneecap. "And for that, I shamelessly claim bragging rights. Just because you don't look a day over twenty yourself doesn't mean everyone else doesn't wear their true age for all to see. Tell on. There is nothing to hide. You and your brother, on the other hand -" she looked at Puck, who stood by, conspicuously silent, "- should probably not reveal _your_ true ages. Not everyone has the mental capacity to fathom the significance of that."

 _Forgive me, love._

Sabrina's mind had missed most of Kate's speech; it was stuck on repeat on that one phrase: _forgive me, love. Forgive me, love. Forgive me, love._

Was this what she thought it was? Was Kate -?

One glance at Puck put all her doubts to rest. The King of Faerie and tricksters, self-proclaimed Pharaoh of Fallacies, Emperor of Exaggeration and Equivocation, was at a loss for words.

Suddenly she understood Puck's instruction: _try not to react_.

She tried her darnest. And failed.

"Are you and Mustardseed -?" She burst out before she could stop herself, her eyes straying blatantly to Kate's hand, to the absence of a ring on any of its fingers.

"She wouldn't let me marry her," Mustardseed answered instead, following her gaze, "although not for lack of trying."

"He's too young for me," Kate explained, twinkling merrily - although for just a moment, Sabrina caught sight of a flash of another emotion on her face.

Mustardseed rolled his eyes sportingly in response. "But I've loved her from the first day we met."

"When you were twenty," Puck spoke at last, seemingly stuck on the earlier part of the conversation, "and Mustardseed was -"

"Not," his brother quipped, then sobered, looking almost guilty. "You were in exile then, Puck. Kate was a miracle, a gift to me."

"She's human," Puck continued as if Mustardseed hadn't even spoken, "mortal."

"Unfortunately," Kate said, smiling sadly as Mustardseed took her hand in his and gazed at her with gut-wrenching sweetness.

"And you aged for her -" Puck began again. "I always thought you aged with me."

"I did," Mustardseed confessed, looking unflinchingly at his brother, "at first. But when you were banished, she was who I had. And so I aged with _her_. But only to a point. As you can see, we are not truly matched in appearance."

"You stopped aging."

"I was _prevented_ from continuing."

"By whom?" Sabrina broke in between the brothers.

"Me," Kate said, looking placid.

All eyes fixed on her serene face.

"Why?" Sabrina asked after a pause, not even caring how rude she was being as she indulged her curiosity. Puck had aged for her, and no one had stopped him, could have even tried.

"His kingdom has greater need of young, strong rulers than sentimental old men," Kate said, looking at Mustardseed as if daring him to challenge her. Sabrina suspected this was an old argument, one that had been rehashed many, many times between them.

"But Mustardseed doesn't have to rule; _Puck_ would've been - I mean, _is_ \- King." Sabrina caught herself.

Mustardseed's expression was both sorrow and regret. "I didn't know it at the time."

"Because I was exiled." Puck concluded bitterly. "Mustardseed's right: as far as everyone in Faerie knew, I was lost. He would've been King after Father."

For a second, they were silent, lost in the implications of Mustardseed's sacrifice.

Then the prince rallied himself and declared, "Well, it has not stopped me loving her for more than half a century."

Kate smiled. "Nor I in return."

"More than half a century." Sabrina frowned, counting in her head. Something about the numbers seemed important, but before she could ponder this further, her phone buzzed again from deep within her purse. Looking both dismayed and apologetic, she turned away from her present company to take the call. Daphne, in a far less probing mood than her sister had been, smiled shyly at Kate and slipped into easy conversation about the quality of the refreshments and travel must-sees in Europe.

And Puck and Mustardseed were left standing together. The older brother gestured comically with his bulbous hands and stumbled over his next words.

"She was the one," Puck whispered as subtly as was possible against a backdrop of hundreds of other voices, "from before. Wasn't she?"

"Before what?" Mustardseed asked, not bothering to match his brother's tone.

"When we were boys, before Moth and that whole fiasco with Father's choice, the girl with the photographs and magazines. . ."

He trailed off, his face clouding over. Mustardseed's brow had creased as he listened, and his face now sagged in shock.

"You knew?" Was all he managed.

"She was the girl who came to the palace with her parents, the family with the stories? The mortals Mother spent so much time with?"

Mustardseed continued to gape, speechless, and Puck raised his hands to his face before remembering they were bandaged. Beside them, Daphne and Kate continued to chat, oblivious and unhearing.

Finally, Mustardseed found his voice and when he spoke, it was full of wonder. "We - I hadn't been outside the palace walls in centuries, didn't know anything of the world outside, and they, she - she was just a child and she'd seen everything, been everywhere. Her parents, they traveled to every corner of the globe, taking pictures, writing about the people they met, places they'd visited, and they took her with them."

"I remember," Puck said, his gaze distant. "Mother was so bored; she hated that she had to hide, that she couldn't go outside like when we were back home, before we came to New York, when it was still safe. And Father knew, so he found them, invited them to come and talk to Mother, and they brought their pictures -"

"-and their magazines, yes," Mustardseed added, "remember those? All black-and-white and no color, but they were wonderful. And Mother was so happy, she kept inviting them back and they kept coming, and bringing more pictures."

"She couldn't get enough," Puck mused, smiling a little wistfully, looking across the room to where Titania stood talking to some guests. He returned his gaze to the younger prince. "And neither could you, it seems."

A faint color bloomed on Mustardseed's cheeks. "I would listen to Kate for hours," he admitted. "She told me about countries I'd never heard of, how the people in all these places looked so different from herself, about the animals that made her laugh and the food that made her sick . . . she was my window to a world I could hardly even imagine."

"I always thought it was a childish fancy," Puck remarked.

"The storytelling?"

Puck looked disapproving. His brother was - most uncharacteristically - being coy.

" _Her_. Your very obvious crush."

The blush was unmistakeable now, even though Mustardseed's next words were firm. "More than a crush. I fell in love with her."

The older brother had barely registered his surprise when the younger continued, "and I am well aware that that is a human word. And were it merely the fickle emotion that is almost an affliction in its demand for sacrifice and selflessness, as the Fae had always believed it, I would have no need of it. But having myself experienced it, I am convinced that our world is the worse for not reaping its benefits."

Puck blinked. As usual, Mustardseed had chosen the most roundabout way to say something that he could've mouthed off far more succinctly but for once, he barely even noticed. Something was knitting together in his mind, and he paused to let the thoughts coalesce. He was remembering a night years ago on which his father had been arguing with his mother. Oberon had grown tired of watching his sons be children, had wanted them to step up in the kingdom, to act like the princes and heirs and visionaries he saw in them. Titania, unconvinced that it was the right time and fearful of his true agenda of steering them toward his own ambitions, had challenged her husband.

Oberon had exploded, ordering his firstborn, the Crown Prince, to marry a fairy girl, one of his wife's handmaidens.

I have chosen her, the King had snarled at the Queen. And my will is law. My son consorts with whom I choose and marries whom I say he marries.

Puck had laughed when his father had informed him. Perhaps he'd been unaware of the seriousness of the situation, or perhaps he'd simply wanted to defy his father, who had always hated him.

Or perhaps he'd glanced at Mustardseed, wide-eyed and ashen-faced, standing in the shadows, a magazine in his hand.

 _Today it's me,_ Puck had thought _, and then tomorrow it would be him and some other random handmaid of Father's choosing. If I yield now . . ._

And he'd stepped up to Oberon and told him he'd rather be banished.

Kings - both those who own the throne and those who are yet destined to - must stand by their word; Puck did not recant his, so also did Oberon keep his. Puck had had barely time to say goodbye to his mother before the guards dragged him away. But before he was pulled from the throne room, he'd turned a last glance on his brother.

 _Hold_ , his eyes had pleaded. _Don't lose the fight_.

That night had changed Puck's life, but it seemed that in the most unexpected way, it had also changed Mustardseed's.

* * *

"Puck."

His name on his brother's lips drew him out of his troubled reminiscence, but his mind held fast to a phantom truth:

 _The exile had not been in vain._

Puck had decided long ago that he would never tell Mustardseed his real reason for defying their father. It would've destroyed the younger prince to know he had enjoyed pleasure at the expense of his brother's place in his own home.

Staring now at Mustardseed, his face alight with joy as he stood in the same room as the human woman he'd loved for more than half a century, Puck was filled with the strangest emotions. Relief, for one. Also triumph. But woven into the mix was guilt that it'd been a fool's dare, that it could've gone horribly wrong, that he'd essentially gambled his kingdom for a mortal whose life was a blink in the eternity of his brother's own. His brother who, until this night, had given no indication of the longevity of that friendship. Who, as far as Puck had known, had moved on, never knowing the elder's sacrifice, or the gift he'd been left. Or its cost.

Then again, he thought, his own eyes drifting across the room and settling on Sabrina, it wasn't the last time he'd surrendered his throne for a mortal. It seemed to be turning into a nasty habit.

"I can personally vouch that love is extremely inconvenient and humiliating," he replied airily to his brother's earlier comment. "But if you want to ruin yourself with it, go right ahead."

Mustardseed laughed, seeing easily through Puck's pretense. "What is it about mortal women," he remarked thoughtfully, "that makes us give up everything we held sacred before?"

Puck snorted. "Their extremely limited shelf-life. It makes them do really stupid things in the name of passion and opportunity. It's like a train wreck. But it's sure fun to watch."

His brother pursed his lips but didn't rise to the bait. Together, they watched the twosome of Kate and Daphne joined by Sabrina, who had finished her call. Puck cleared his throat.

"By the way, the photographs - did they ever turn color or were they always just grays?"

Mustardseed nodded. "Not long after you left. It was amazing. I still remember the first ones Kate showed me. To see the Sahara in color, even though it was just brown sand and blue sky, and then later, cities and markets and the waters of the Mediterranean. . . I told myself you were out there seeing it all for yourself. That you were the lucky one, because you were no longer trapped here. Some nights I almost believed it. It wasn't true, of course. But it helped. And Kate's family did, too."

"I suppose I should be glad Father let them continue to come, then," Puck said offhandedly. "It would've been a tragedy to believe the world actually was black and white."

Mustardseed turned sharply to Puck, not missing the meaning in his words, but at that moment, Sabrina found her way back to them.

"Hey," she said, "I can't believe it's been two hours already, but I need to be at the Winter Social. You know, the school thing I told you about? I'd rather be here, as this is obviously the more interesting party, but I promised." She gazed at Puck apologetically, brandishing her phone as if it explained everything. "I'm really glad I caught the coronation bit, though. I guess this means I'm ditching."

"Already?" Puck looked miffed. "Don't leave me to face the crazies all by myself!" He held out his bound hands. "With _these_!"

"Sorry," Sabrina said, sincerely. The timing couldn't have been worse - in a room full of stiffly formal guests, Kate was the single most interesting person she'd met all evening and she wanted nothing more than to remain in her company. And something in Puck's face hinted that he, too, had about a thousand questions for the smiling, engaging lady, if not his brother as well. As they talked, Puck had steered her to a section of the room that offered them a little more privacy - or as much privacy as could be hoped for for the star of the show, as it were.

"Well, I do have a few more minutes before my ride gets here," she conceded. "So, what's next? I guess we can expect reprisals from every corner now that you're King?"

Puck looked scornful. "Um, this isn't exactly a press conference, you know. Beyond this room - and tonight's guest list - who knows about the coronation? Your world certainly doesn't."

"You sound disappointed."

"I've been thinking about it. See, if I'm done hiding, the world needs to know. And if they want a fight they can come get it."

Sabrina's eyes slitted in suspicion. "What are you thinking, Puck?"

"That there's one way to find out." He shoved his hand toward his pocket, then scowled.

"What?" Sabrina asked.

Puck gestured to his oversize hand and then his pocket. "I need my phone. A little help?"

Sabrina stepped closer and slipped her hand into his back pocket. Her face warmed as she considered their close proximity.

"Don't get distracted, Grimm," Puck teased in a low voice.

"I'm not," she tossed back haughtily as she withdrew his phone and held it out to him, "I'm just surprised there aren't worms and dirt and prank supplies in there, too."

"Oh, those are in the _front_ pockets," Puck informed her, and she heard the laughter in his voice, "and you're welcome to them if you want."

Sabrina took a huge step away from him, phone still in hand. Puck grinned at her, enjoying how flustered he'd gotten her.

"I got your stupid phone, Butthead. Are you gonna take it or what?" Sabrina glared at him.

Puck continued smiling. "Take a photo of me."

Sabrina rolled her eyes but obliged. "Your self-absorption knows no limit."

"Tweet it," Puck instructed.

"Saying what?"

Puck considered for a moment. "Stepping into the old man's shoes. Hashtag 'Allhailtheking'."

Sabrina gawked at him. " _Seriously_?"

"Too subtle?"

"Too . . . uh . . . I don't know. . . _weird_. It's obvious and yet . . . not. Wait!" She opened a photo-editing app and added a hand-drawn crown. Then she showed the finished image to Puck.

Puck studied it for two seconds. "That's. . ."

"Cartoony, I know. But that's social media, Puck. On the surface, sorta fake witty and a little bit corny. But the insiders will get it. And those are the ones you really want to know, right?"

Puck stared at her with grudging respect. "I'd never pegged you as having any people skills, Grimm. You surprise me every day."

"Watch and learn, Your Majesty. So, send it?"

Puck glanced from the screen to Sabrina, his eyes bright. "Knock their socks off, babe."

Sabrina hit "Tweet" and heard her own phone ping with the notification.

"Okay," she sighed, laying her hand on his forearm, completely oblivious to the way the surrounding guests stared at the human girl completely at ease with Faerie monarchy. " _Now_ I really have to go. You know I would've picked to stay if I could; those school socials are so lame. But I promised Celine. And she'd skin me alive if I bailed on her. So . . . congratulations," she added in lieu of a goodbye, as if Puck had simply won the sweepstakes instead of an ancient kingdom and all its accompanying responsibilities. "I guess I really should call you Your Majesty now, huh? Nice suit, by the way - much better than the robe you wore ten years ago, and that dumb scepter. You look . . . really good." She smiled crookedly at him and Puck's heart jumped oddly in his chest.

And then she was gone, weaving her way between the guests.

* * *

In another corner, Mustardseed's phone pinged. He looked at the screen, then smiled to himself as he read his brother's tweet. Already the comments were flowing in, all from mortals - mostly gushing, with the occasional troll dissing him for disrespecting Elvis. He handed his phone to Kate.

Kate said after glancing at the tweet, "Well, it looks like the cat's out of the bag now. Are you prepared for what may come?"

"Yes," said Mustardseed with resolve.

"There she goes," Kate observed Sabrina heading toward the exit, her red dress a brilliant marker in the crowd. "I like her. She'll make a good Queen."

"Yes, Mustardseed repeated. "And so would you, even if for a mortal lifetime."

"Well, now neither of us needs to rule," Kate finished. "We can retire in the Italian countryside as you've always wanted, and go traipsing through the vineyards."

"Mm," Mustardseed said, gazing at Kate's knees with an ache in his soul.

* * *

Sabrina reached the exit, her phone to her ear, and turned to cast a last backward glance. She searched for Puck's face, but too many layers of the crowd separated them now. With a swirl of her skirt, she quietly exited Faerie, stepping out of one reality into another as easily as if they were scenes in a play.

But from across the room, the King of Faerie watched her leave, as other eyes trailed her also, and feet surreptitiously followed.

* * *

 **A/N: Another chapter! Some backstory on Kate. Hope you enjoyed.**

~qas


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N 1: Hey, everyone. It's been a while, I know, and for those interested in the details, I'll share some in the note at the end of this chapter. For now, I thought I'd do a quick recap of the story up to this point, so you can dive right into this newest installment without having to re-read old stuff if you don't care to. Spoiler alert!**

 **Quick recap: In Chapter 12, we briefly met two new characters in a stone cavern - a woman on a throne and an off-stage lackey called Einar with whom she had a phone conversation about a coronation. In Chapter 13, Puck's coronation happened, and the Grimms were in attendance. They were introduced to Kate, Mustardseed's old flame, as it were, a consequence of which was Puck taking a trip down memory lane to the circumstances surrounding his banishment from Faerie. At the end of the chapter, Sabrina made an early exit to a college social which she'd promised her roommate Celine she'd attend.**

 **Now you're all caught up - read on!**

* * *

"There you are!" Celine sidled up to Sabrina from behind and grabbed her elbow. "Finally! Now take a look around and tell me you aren't glad you came. Isn't this fun? They went all out!"

Had she not just left the coronation of the King of Faerie, Sabrina might've possibly found something in her new surroundings with which to agree. In all fairness, the multi-purpose hall had been well and truly decked out in gold and silver, with accents of teal in the table skirts, partyware and fan bunting along its walls. Glittering spirals and snowflakes hung on invisible threads from the ceiling, catching the light as they spun. The crowd was a good size - not too large that one had to jostle or shout to be heard, but not so small that one felt like a fool for having even bothered to turn up. Celine was dressed to the nines - long black dress, heels, tasteful makeup and an updo that, practiced preener notwithstanding, she could not have pulled off without professional help. Sabrina might not be the sort to doll herself up, but even she could appreciate a job well done on someone else.

"Nice, Celine," Sabrina said sincerely, peeling off her winter coat and looking around for somewhere to deposit it.

Her room mate, however, was staring at _her_.

"Excuuuuuuuse me," Celine said with awe, "I could say the same to you! Where did you get that dress? And why do you look like you just stepped off the runway?"

"Oh, er, _this_ thing," Sabrina said uncomfortably, and smoothed non-existent wrinkles down the front of her outfit. "Um, I asked someone for help, and he picked this."

" _He_? It's that hotshot boyfriend of yours, isn't it? I should've guessed that you'd have access to his unending, magnificent wardrobe."

"First, he doesn't wear dresses. Second, no, it's not him."

"Hah! So you admit you two are a thing. I knew it. But wait - does this mean you know _two_ guys who have great tastes in clothes? Unfair."

"It's just his image consultant. Who as good as said that my taste stinks and he'd be more than pleased to make sure no one else in social media found out."

"Image consultant. . . !" Celine moaned. "I want an image consultant, too. And the unlimited clothing budget he comes with."

"I assumed this dress is on loan," Sabrina said, steering Celine toward some chairs in a corner. "So your job tonight is to help me not spill anything on it, okay?"

Celine redirected Sabrina toward the opposite wall. "Our stuff is over there."

" _Our_?"

"Sam's and mine," Celine told her, sounding a tad smug. "Please don't say you forgot about Sam."

"Oh, right, your date."

"Yep. _My_ date. And _your_ date is . . . where?"

"I don't have one. I came alone."

"Well, I'm not sharing."

"Never even crossed my mind. But if you have Sam, why'd you need me here?"

"You're not here for me, Brina. You're here for _you_. _You_ need a break. We work our behinds off in every class - and don't deny it, our _entire_ freshman year was like playtime compared to last semester alone. If you didn't have me to make you live a little, you'd be in your room swotting your eyes out every chance you get. Case in point: if I hadn't made you come tonight, what would you've been doing?"

 _Rubbing shoulders with Fae monarchy, why?_ Sabrina thought, then quickly stifled the grin that was just beginning. Celine looked deadly serious.

"As a matter of fact, I came from another . . . social event," she said instead, realizing that she'd have to choose her next words carefully. "Robin's family . . . mmm . . . he's taking over the . . . the family business, so there was a big . . . thing . . . this afternoon at his place to commemorate . . . uh . . . it."

Celine's eyes widened. "So that's why you have the gorgeous dress. The place must've been crawling with press."

"Actually, no. I mean, it was a very inclusive affair. Fancy, yes, but not public. Just friends of the family and other. . . people in the . . . business."

Celine whistled. "So closed doors. What business does he do, anyway? Come to think of it, I don't think the magazines ever made it clear. Only that he's loaded and they're doing very well."

"It's incredibly vague," Sabrina hedged. "Strategic people management, whatever that means."

"Sounds like they tell everyone else what to do and because they're filthy rich, everyone else listens."

Sabrina smiled. "That's exactly it, yes. So . . . where's Sam? I want to meet him."

"Bathroom break," Celine said, "and he's taking forever, which is weird because aren't the girls' bathrooms the ones with the long lines, while the guys never have to wait because they all just mass-pee?"

"No, we don't," a voice behind them said, and both girls turned in surprise. "Because _that_ would be weird."

"Sam!" Celine exclaimed and dragged him forward by the arm. "Sabrina, this is Sam. She's been wanting to meet you forever, but you've been so busy."

"Well, I wasn't too busy to come tonight, was I?" Sam said smoothly.

"No, but you were so late I had to go on ahead and meet you here." Celine's words were chastising, but her tone had softened. She gestured between her two friends. "Sam, meet Sabrina."

Sabrina took her first good look at Celine's date and drew in a breath. He looked familiar, but she couldn't quite place him.

"Have we met before?" She wondered aloud as she extended her hand to him.

Beside her, Celine snorted. "Really? That is such a lame line."

"No, seriously, I feel like I know you from somewhere. . ." Sabrina frowned as she tried to remember. Sam shook her hand, smiling.

"If we'd met before, _I_ wouldn't have forgotten it," he said warmly, and Celine coughed.

"Smooth, Sam. Now, eyes back on me," she teased. "Sabrina's taken. Besides, you're not her type, anyway."

"And what type is that?" Sam played along.

"Blond, green eyes, famous, rich and way too busy to show his face at a college social. Which is why Sabrina is on her own tonight."

"Which is perfectly fine with me," Sabrina soothed, "and what Celine meant to say is that she's really glad you took the time to be with her here. From what I heard, your course is even more of a nightmare than ours, hours-wise. What do you do, again?"

Sam obliged her with a vague description of the classes he was taking, and Sabrina nodded attentively. She wasn't truly interested, though - she figured all courses were the same at some fundamental level - more than the information he was spouting, she was listening to his voice and the way he formed his words. And she was watching his face, taking in his dark intelligent eyes, sharp cheekbones, perfectly even teeth and fashionably-styled hair. Celine hadn't been exaggerating - Sam _was_ very cute, his features almost reminiscent of William Charming's in their chiseled handsomeness, but something about him unsettled Sabrina. She never forgot a face - reading people and noticing their little quirks were skills she'd picked up in the years spent in the foster care system and which had saved her and her sister's lives countless times - and she _knew_ she'd seen Sam's somewhere.

" . . . dance. We'll be back in a bit, okay?"

Celine's voice interrupted her thoughts, and Sabrina quickly focused on her friend.

"Yeah, sure. I'll just hang out here," she waved Celine on. "Go, have fun."

"Hey," Celine said, peering at her in concern, "you okay?"

"Oh, fine. Just preoccupied. You know me."

"I'm not planning to be glued to Sam all night, by the way. You and me gonna go network right after this, so don't you go anywhere. Unless someone asks _you_ to dance, in which case, for heaven's sake, _go_."

* * *

Einar watched her.

From the second she'd entered Faerie's Great Hall, a burst of red beside her sister, he'd not taken his gaze off her. As she'd trained her eyes on the King of Faerie during the ceremony and lain her hand on his arm after. As she spoke with the elderly mortal, and her face registered surprise, awe and that look of poignant dismay when she'd answered a call on her phone. He'd watched as she'd said goodbye to the King, the space closing momentarily between them before she'd turned in a ruby swirl and melted into the crowd. As the King's own eyes lingered in her direction long after she'd vanished.

Whereupon he'd moved. Quietly, stealthily, he'd tailed her from the Great Hall, never more than thirty feet between them, stopping only once - and momentarily - when she'd turned to glance back in the King's direction. Had he been a common soldier, this might have given him pause: was she hesitating, choosing to stay, considering changing her plans? And would that mean he'd have to change his?

But he was no common soldier. His service to his queen was not as a nameless drone among an uncountable army; for years he had been her eyes and ears and feet and hands, seeing where she could not, going where she sent him, executing on her behalf her every whim and wish.

Besides, he'd watched Sabrina Grimm long enough to know that she did not easily change her plans - or her mind - not even when her heart warred within her.

And - grudgingly - that warring heart had earned his respect. It resonated with his own, which had warred for his queen since the first day he'd set eyes on and sworn his fealty to her. Warring hearts never surrendered; they ached and were destroyed, and they continued beating. Warring hearts were never at a loss, did not change plans.

So he waited - for Sabrina Grimm to finish her sweep of the room, exhale, and resume her focused stride toward the exit. And he continued to watch until she'd emerged in the cool, dark air of Central Park and enclosed herself in the Uber car spiriting her away to her next destination.

He'd finally stopped watching then. Not because he'd lost her but because he'd known exactly where she was going. Because it was his destination, too. It was always his favorite part of the game, this temporary respite in which he let his prey go free, knowing exactly when and where and how he would find them again. It was almost a shame, though, that she didn't know she was being watched; it was so much more enjoyable when they did. He liked beholding their relief as they escaped - and their utter despair when they realized they actually hadn't.

Now she was once more in his sights, talking to her friend, still in her eye-catching dress. It made her easy to spot, not that he needed the help. She was relaxed and comfortable. She suspected nothing. Her friend was just as clueless.

He aimed his phone and snapped a picture of them. Arm-in-arm and leaning into each other, Sabrina Grimm looking bemused while Celine (what was her last name? He hadn't bothered to remember) nursed a smirk on her own face. Einar waited till they separated, then took a second picture of just Sabrina in her red dress. He checked the image - she looked like she was standing right in front of him.

Perfect.

He composed his message, attached the photo and sent it out.

"Come and dance, Sam," Celine coaxed. "Social media can wait."

Smiling, Einar obliged.

* * *

Puck's phone pinged.

Cursing his ham-fisted hands, he hollered for Mustardseed.

"Pocket," he spat and gestured with a tilt of his head when his brother was at his side. "Phone."

With only the slightest rise of his eyebrow, Mustardseed retrieved the device from his Puck's pocket and flicked the screen on.

"It's a text," he remarked. "Just the number, no name. Likely some fan who hacked the system and found you. So much for unlisted. Sent a picture of themselves, too. Don't know if they're shameless or just ignorant. It's still loading - the image is huge."

"Dangit," Puck muttered, "I was hoping it'd be Grimm saying her other party was trash and she was heading back here where the real action is. I can't believe she -""

Mustardseed froze, and released an involuntary gasp.

Puck made a noise of irritation. "Just delete it. I'm not interested in yet another selfie of some mortal not wearing enough clothes."

"You need to see this." Mustardseed's voice was a whisper.

"Fine," Puck said with an exaggerated shrug, and peered over his brother's shoulder. "But if it's some hussy -"

And felt the air leave his lungs.

The photo was a close-up of Sabrina in her red dress, smiling unsuspectingly into the camera. On the wall behind her, clearly visible even in soft focus, was the banner announcing the Winter Social, hung right over the name of the venue, Caldecott Hall, inscribed in gold in the wood paneling.

In the caption: _I Am Hunting._

It took Puck all of two seconds for his stomach to meet his throat in an acrid, rolling boil. And then he snarled, the sound harsh against the bland, elegant sounds that filled the Great Hall. Those whose eyes weren't already on him (and there weren't many, given that he was the King) turned in his direction in surprise, but Puck had already taken off, pushing aside his bewildered guests on his way to the door. Ignoring Mustardseed's cautions about _your hands_ and _it's a trap_ and _take some guards with you for pity's sake_ , he broke into a run as soon as he was clear of the crowd, tearing desperately at his bandages which fell in blood-stained curls of white in his wake.

* * *

Sabrina tossed the paper towel into the trash can as she checked her reflection in the restroom mirror. Once again, she marveled - in gratitude - at Magnus' good eye. Celine was right - having a personal image consultant made the price of fame almost worth it. _Not that I'm famous_ , Sabrina thought. _And I hope I never will be_.

Satisfied that everything looked in place, she exited the restroom to head back to the function hall. It was a bit of a walk - the closest restroom would've been just around the corner from the party, but that had been temporarily closed for cleaning (or so the sign said) and she'd had to detour a couple of hallways down and past a large storeroom stacked with chairs against a wall to get to this one. Caldecott Hall was an old building, one of the last remaining on a campus growing rapidly through more modern extensions and annexes. For that reason, it had always been a favorite for social events - its history and rustic masonry lent it an atmosphere and character missing from the newer architectural behemoths of glass and concrete . Unfortunately, the authorities had gone a tad far in preserving the building's charm: it had continued to be outfitted with poor lighting and even less hospitable ventilation via largely decorative (and practically opaque) windows. Sabrina had never liked the gloomy corners and alcoves hidden among the awkwardly-connected hallways, nor the musty air that hung heavy and bred echoes from the slightest whisper or footfall. It reminded her of basements with locks that were meant to keep her and her sister inches from freedom.

She shook herself and willed her thoughts toward more pleasant things. She'd long left that life behind. She had her family again, intact. And she was in college now, enjoying a benign life of learning and friendships, taking time off to attend a frivolous party.

A shadow moved on the floor ahead and despite her positive self-talk, she tensed, all senses firing.

A second went by, and then another.

 _It's just the moon_ , she counseled herself when nothing else changed. _And just a branch; the moon moving out from behind the clouds and reaching through a window to paint its silhouette on wooden boards._

Regardless, she quickened her steps, mentally calculating how long it would take to sprint back to the safety of the crowd if she needed to: 5, maybe 7 seconds, at most. She frowned as she suddenly realized that she hadn't seen anyone else either coming or going to this restroom - in a party that size, there should be a steady stream of girls needing to use the facilities for any number of reasons.

Her skin prickled, her heartbeat filling her ears. She swallowed and made herself keep walking, even as she fumbled in her clutch for her phone. I've fought off worse before, she reminded herself. And the party is just past the next hallway. She wished now that she'd let Celine know where she'd gone - her friend had been on the dance floor then and she hadn't wanted to bother her with even a text.

Then, with a flicker of darkness over the far wall, someone emerged from around the corner. Sabrina bit down on her lip, hard. It was too late to hide, too late to even think about moving anywhere but forward. The person padded into the dim cast of the overhead lamp and Sabrina tasted blood.

"Oh, hey, Sabrina," the person said, closing the yards between them.

"Sam!" Sabrina exhaled in shock and relief.

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you. Celine was wondering where you'd gone, so I offered to investigate." He turned to walk beside Sabrina, as if to escort her back to the party. "This is kinda out of the way, isn't it? You'd think they'd build alternative restrooms in slightly less creepy locations if they're doing their cleaning during rush hour. This is a lawsuit waiting to happen, I tell ya."

Sabrina could only nod and chuckle lamely as she fell into step with him. Ordinarily, she'd have spouted her usual defense about being able to take care of herself, thanks, but something about tonight felt _off_. She was just about to ask Sam if he'd seen any other girls coming their way when a thought hit her. The service sign had been _inside_ the women's restroom that had been closed - she'd had to actually walk in before seeing the yellow cones and whiteboard directing guests to the alternative one she'd just used. So unless Sam had a habit of wandering into places he shouldn't be in . . .

"How did you know where to find me?" She asked, willing her voice to sound curious rather than suspicious.

Sam hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then he shrugged. "I saw the sign."

"What sign?"

Sabrina's counter question was almost a reflex. This time she didn't even bother to keep her tone even.

Sam glanced at her, a movement quick and sharp, and Sabrina felt the air chill. Instinctively, she stepped away from him but he continued toward her, his head cocked and a slight curve to his lips.

"Sam -"

She never finished her sentence. Her body was slammed against something hard and her breath was knocked out of her. Her knees buckled but then Sam's fingers were on her neck, squeezing and pressing her into the wall with an immovable grip. He was strong - far stronger than any man who'd ever attacked her - but Sabrina had fought monsters, and whatever she lacked in strength, she made up for with an aggressive survival instinct. She twisted to break his hold, and when she found herself still pinned to the wall, she planted her feet, grabbed his elbow and launched her legs into whatever part of him they could reach.

Sam's hand came away and Sabrina fell, then scampered away, gasping. She forced herself to her feet to face him, sure that he would strike again.

"Why do they always come from the front?" She seethed at him, adrenaline making her reckless. "It gives me much more of them to kick."

Sam watched her, his eyes glinting. "If I'd wanted to kill you, you'd be dead already." He made no move to resume his assault on her.

"Who the hell are you?" Sabrina hissed. A part of her wanted to shout for help, but her brain was processing a mile a minute: this was Sam, the boy Celine had been hanging out with, might even have been slightly in love with. Why would he attack his date's roommate?

When he didn't answer, she continued her accusation, "I know I've seen you somewhere before!"

"You wouldn't have remembered," Sam replied with eerie calm.

Then Sabrina found herself on the floor, with Sam's weight on her legs and his hand over her mouth. It happened so quickly that she hadn't even had time to take a breath; she inhaled desperately against his fingers, her chest pulling painfully.

"I said I'm not interested in killing you," he repeated. "Do try to cooperate this time."

Sabrina bit his hand, hard.

Immediately, her temple throbbed and starbursts of light exploded. Sam had hit her with his other hand. But she could breathe again, and she did.

"If you scream," he said, matter-of-fact, "I will knock you out and go back for Celine. And _her_ I'll kill. I'll text you the photos. Or would you like a video?"

Sabrina swallowed, her head still pounding, her teeth clenched in rage and fear for her roommate, but she asked, "What do you want?"

Sam leaned close and whispered, "I want the King of Faerie. And you are going to help me get him."

And then she smelled it: incense.

The wheels in her mind began to spin.

 _The revel in Faerie on Puck's birthday. There'd been a gibberish-spouting stranger who'd smelled of incense. who'd kissed her when she'd fallen after drinking the magic water. Who'd become Puck's prisoner after Mustardseed had apprehended him. Who'd been kicked out of Faerie unpunished and sent packing to the North Court, or Greenland, or wherever, in an uncharacteristic act of mercy to avoid starting a war._

 _But . . . Sam didn't look the least bit like . . ._

As the details coalesced in her mind, Sam's features blurred and shifted. Sabrina blinked, unsure of what exactly she was seeing: Sam's face rippling momentarily into another, then changing back, as if this man had two faces, was somehow two people at the same time. The word _glamor_ entered her mind: she recalled Puck talking about it when he'd explained why the mortals were unable to see his pointed ears in the magazine photos. _Sam_ must have been a disguise - perhaps one of who knew how many this imposter had worn in his lifetime. Sabrina recognized him now: Not-Sam was the Prince of the Northern Court, the very same stranger from Puck's revel. And from the look he was giving her, he knew she'd seen his true identity.

"We meet again, Sabrina Grimm. Your Sight is strong. . . for a human."

Before she could reply, Not-Sam rose in a fluid motion, flipped Sabrina over as effortlessly as if he were turning a page in a book, dropped his knees and his full weight once more on her legs.

"I would grind your pretty face into the floor for my queen," he said, shifting to grab a handful of her hair close to her scalp, "but I need you recognizable when he comes."

Even with her eyes watering, Sabrina would've spat her defiance at that same floor, and declared the King of Faerie too busy to play this game with nobodies like him, but at the moment, they both heard her name echoing down the hallway.

"Right on time," Not-Sam said with satisfaction.

Had she been able to turn her head, Sabrina would've seen the King of Faerie thunder into view.

With her roommate - unwitting, _mortal_ Celine - right behind him.

* * *

 **A/N 2: So, some serious stuff now. My Dad died in May this year and it's been tough navigating all the changes therein. It was sudden and unexpected, which was a unique challenge in itself, but he (and Mum) were also living in a different country than I am, so that's added another layer to my grief. Some days, I feel as if he's absent because I'm so used to not seeing him or hearing his voice everyday anyway. Other days, I feel like his death took a part of my history with him, while also tearing a hole in my future because he isn't going to be in it. Overall, I'm doing much better now that things are less raw, but it's still a long process. Writing has been cathartic although I've been leaning toward journaling rather than fiction. This story (Twenty-One) is still in my head but creative energy these days comes in tiny quanta: enough to slowly plot next steps but not quite enough to physically produce a paragraph. This chapter had been sitting on my dashboard since before Dad died, so I figured it was time to bring it into the light. Hope you liked it.**

 **Thanks for understanding, friends. And for the notes and reviews and follows and favorites. Do I want to finish this story? Oh, yeah. It needs to come out of my brain and onto the written page. Do I know when the next chapters will get written? Not immediately. Will I give up writing altogether? No. Writing is healing. Funny account: I re-read Brink in the early weeks of my grief when I was still numb and my emotions were constipated. Felt very narcissistic, reading my own stuff, but I remembered that I wrote Brink about family and loss and home, and I wanted to connect with that same girl who'd felt so much about loss that she could write an entire story about it. People say that we write what we know, after all, and there was an innocence to the losses in Brink that was healing to read.**

 **Apologies if I've made anyone feel morose. Just wanted to be transparent and say where I am. If anyone's lost someone recently (or ever), I'm sending out a hug to you, too. Say a prayer for me (and Mum) if you have a minute? It's been a hard year but people have turned up from all over to be a blessing to us, for which I am unspeakably grateful. See ya back here soon.**

 **~qas**


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